The Reluctant Traitor Affair
by otherhawk
Summary: "In effect, you wish me to go undercover as myself." In order to put a stop to a plot involving kidnapped children, Illya must turn traitor and join THRUSH. This isn't going to be easy.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Time for another multichapter fic, I think. Hope you like.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own anything Man from UNCLE related.**

* * *

It was late; Illya didn't think there was anyone left in this part of headquarters except him and his fish, and if he had his way he'd already be home and asleep. He looked at the stacks of paperwork piled across his desk and groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. Oh, he was most definitely getting a headache, and the words were beginning to swim in front of his eyes.

Expense claims and mission reports needing signed off, recertification requests and vacation times needing scheduled and approved, various memos from other sections and agencies...Napoleon was on vacation for two weeks and had seemingly decided that meant that all the paperwork he'd deemed not-technically-urgent could be left for his partner and second-in-command to take care of in his absence. Illya suspected he must have stopped doing any paperwork at all at least a week before he left...although if he was of a charitable mind he might conclude that since they were in Paraguay for that week, Napoleon probably hadn't had much of a chance to do anything else. However, since he was here at a quarter to midnight, signing off a request for three new sniper rifles, being forgiving was not uppermost in his mind. He intended to have _words_ the moment Napoleon got back, and none of them were going to be particularly repeatable. At least he knew now why his expenses from last month hadn't gone through – he'd found them buried deep in one of the very first piles he'd worked through.

Possibly mere words weren't going to be enough here.

Sighing again, he stood and absently shook some food into the fish tank, watching the guppies swim up and gulp at it eagerly. "How I envy you," he said aloud. "Food appears from the sky and no one expects you to pay for it, nor sign an expense claim and produce receipts three weeks later."

He smiled wryly to himself. Probably the fact he was talking to the fish meant that he should consider heading home. Or maybe at this stage he should be hoping for a nice long assignment to take him out of headquarters until Napoleon got back.

Right on cue the intercom on his desk sounded.

Surprising. He hurried over to answer it. "Kuryakin here," he said.

"Mr Kuryakin, Mr Waverly would like to see you in his office right away." He recognised the voice of Nicola Golding, though something sounded off about her and he couldn't quite put his finger on what.

"Of course, I'll be right there," he said smoothly. Apparently he wasn't the only one working late tonight. Something significant must be going on.

Nicola was waiting outside Mr Waverly's office and he took note of the dark circles beneath her eyes with a frown. "Is everything alright, Nicola?" he asked with concern.

"Oh, yes, Mr Kuryakin," she said with a bright smile. "You can go on in now."

Of course. He did so, and Mr Waverly looked up from the report he was reading. "Ah, Mr Kuryakin, there you are," he said, for all the world as if Illya had taken hours to get there rather than a few moments. "Mrs Golding, perhaps you would fetch us some brandy?"

 _Brandy?_ Immediately he was on alert. He had never been invited into the Old Man's office and offered refreshments before. Something was wrong.

"Please take a seat, Mr Kuryakin," Mr Waverly added calmly.

"Yes sir," he said and sat in awkward silence while Mr Waverly continued to study his report, until Nicola returned with a decanter of brandy and a couple of glasses which she poured for both of them.

"Thank you," he said carefully.

"Yes, thank you, Mrs Golding," Mr Waverly said. "That will be all. Please close the door behind you." Illya watched as he took a sip of brandy once the door was closed. "A very nice girl and a very competent secretary who is, sadly, working for THRUSH."

"Sir?" Alarmed, Illya gazed at the brandy. Were they really letting double agents run around headquarters now?

Mr Waverly caught his look and snorted slightly. "Oh, I don't think we need to worry about poison. Her role is to pass on information without being detected – and not of her own free will either, I might add."

"I see," Illya said slowly. "So we are using her to pass on false information and attempt to find her THRUSH handlers?"

Mr Waverly gazed at him. "Something like that," he said. "Tell me, do you know what the Hidden Bottle Affair, the False Candidate Affair and the Deep Winter Affair have in common?"

His mind raced. He had no idea what this could possibly have to do with Nicola Golding. And on the face of it, the affairs had nothing in common that he could think of, although they were all fairly recent. "The Deep Winter Affair was a plot to destroy a nuclear reactor," he said slowly. "Napoleon and I were the agents assigned. Simon Delacroix was the head of the satrap – he is now deceased. The Empty Bottle Affair involved the theft of certain experimental viruses from a lab in Boston. Mr Corwin was the lead agent, and the plot was orchestrated by Douglas Manning, who is now in prison. The False Candidate Affair was an attempt to replace the leading candidate for the senate race in Illinois with a THRUSH double. It was foiled by Miss Dancer and Mr Slate, and was led by Angelique Le Chien who unfortunately escaped, although not until _after_ Miss Dancer broke her nose with what was, by all accounts, an excellent right hook." He spoke with a certain satisfaction – he had bought all April's drinks for an entire evening because of that, something which had made Napoleon decidedly unhappy with him. "I'm sorry, sir, I'm afraid I don't see the connection."

"Indeed," Mr Waverly raised an eyebrow. "All three plots required either an inside man or a large amount of inside information. And that was not achieved by the THRUSH satrap directly involved in the affair."

Ah. Now he began to understand. "Another satrap supporting the others through acquiring this inside knowledge," he said. "And they are also the ones to turn Mrs Golding – do we know their methods?"

"Unfortunately, yes," Mr Waverly said. "It seems that they are targeting the families of their victims – children and grandchildren in particular. We haven't discovered the exact details but we do know the children vanish for a week or so under some pretext, and then return apparently as normal."

"But the parents are then creatures of THRUSH," Illya said slowly. He knew Nicola had a young son – she'd been showing around photos taken at his sixth birthday party a couple of months back. He remembered the bright, gap-toothed smile the boy had been wearing, and he shuddered to think of a child like that being used by THRUSH. "Sir, your family - "

" - I've already thought of that," Mr Waverly assured him. "They've been moved to a safe house in Europe for the time being. Alice is most put-out, but she will forgive me in time."

That was something at least. The consequences of Mr Waverly being compromised in such a manner did not bear thinking about. "Do we know how many victims there have been?" Illya asked.

"No," Mr Waverly told him. "I suspect from information that's leaked out that Mrs Golding is not the only one within headquarters, but other than that, I can't say. Nor do we know how many children might be still missing, or where they might be being held, or what exactly is being done to them to compel their parents to act. It will be your job to answer these questions and put a stop to this scheme."

He nodded; he'd surmised as much. "Do I have a place to start?" he asked.

"All we know is that the leader is a man named Rex, and they have their base right here in New York," Mr Waverly said.

He paused. "It's not going to be easy to investigate without risking the children," he said carefully. "Particularly when we do not know what information may be leaking our, or who we can trust."

"No," Mr Waverly agreed. "Indeed, I believe the only way to dismantle this operation is from the inside."

Oh. He didn't normally make a habit of questioning Mr Waverly's orders, but he wondered just how successful he could hope to be, going undercover when there was a leak within headquarters. "Isn't there a chance they will be told who I am?"

"Almost certainly," Mr Waverly said off-handedly. "But I've considered that. Here – take a look." He placed a piece of paper on the table and spun it round to where Illya was sitting.

He looked down. There, in official black-and-white was an order removing him from his position in UNCLE and compelling his return to the USSR for debriefing and reassignment.

There was ice in his blood and no air in his lungs.

"Well?" Mr Waverly asked, over the blood pounding through his head. "What do you say to that?"

He didn't look up. "I go where I am sent and do as I am told," he said woodenly.

Mr Waverly snorted. "Oh no you don't," he said tartly. "That's part of what makes you an effective agent. One that I do not have the slightest intention of giving up so easily. I promise you, Mr Kuryakin. I am not going to initiate anything with your government I cannot easily undo."

"Then what..." he began, but as the cold shock wore off, he saw it. "You think THRUSH might believe that I would be willing to join them to avert this," he said. "In effect, you wish me to go undercover as myself."

"Very well put, Mr Kuryakin,," Mr Waverly agreed. "Yes, they would be unlikely to believe that a Section II would turn for money or personal power."

But this...yes. He thought he could sell this. Absently, he drank the brandy. "It is going to look as though I have defected," he said. He would have the KGB and the FBI after him.

"Unfortunately, that can't be helped," Mr Waverly said, a hint of sympathy showing through in his voice. "It is necessary to create the deception." He paused. "Additionally, no one within headquarters must know of your mission."

No one...

"Anyone could be a victim of this satrap," Mr Waverly pointed out.

And so everyone he knew must believe him a traitor. He took a deep breath. "Very well, sir, however I must point out that Napoleon is due back from vacation at the end of next week."

Mr Waverly regarded him with heavy curiosity. "Do you think he could be persuaded that you had joined THRUSH voluntarily?"

He was compelled to answer truthfully. "No. He is more likely to assume I have been compromised in some way and attempt to rescue me."

"With disastrous results for the mission," Mr Waverly agreed with a slight undercurrent of irritation. Once again their personal loyalty was getting in the way of operations. "Very well, I will tell him when he returns. By that time, hopefully you will be be embedded within the satrap."

Yes. Which would at least spare him Napoleon's reaction to all this. This was exactly the sort of assignment that Napoleon despised.

And he couldn't help but think of all the reasons why. "Sir, as a member of THRUSH it's likely I will be expected to take part in activities that are...morally suspect," he said carefully.

"You must use your own judgement, Mr Kuryakin," Mr Waverly said immediately. "You know better than anyone what lines can be crossed."

Oh, yes. He had prior experience. Блин, he hated this. He absolutely hated this.

"Very well, sir," he said with a crisp nod. "I assume this meeting tonight was supposed to be you breaking the news? I will make sure I am especially difficult to deal with over the next few days." He stood up to leave. "I apologise in advance for anything unpleasant I may say about you, sir."

"Likewise, Mr Kuryakin," Mr Waverly agreed. "Now, go. And good luck."

Nicola Golding was still outside when he left. He hid his sympathies and paid her no attention but let the ice and fury show on his face, marching through the communications section so at least a few others would see him. He might as well let the gossip spread.

* * *

The next day Illya came into work an hour late, unshaven, wearing dark glasses and with every appearance of a hangover. Truthfully, he'd spent the night nursing a single glass of vodka and trying to come up with any kind of plan that would let him infiltrate THRUSH...and get out again alive. But he thought that having received news of his return to Moscow, getting paralytically drunk would seem a likely thing for him to do in his unhappiness. After all; it was what he _wanted_ to do.

Suzanne was on the front desk and she gazed at him with evident concern. "Good morning, Mr Kuryakin," she said. "Is everything alright?"

He just grunted in response. She wasn't married, but she had a teenage cousin that she spoke about all the time. It was strange to consider that anyone here might be a traitor. He took his badge, walking towards his office and pretending to be oblivious to the whispers.

" _Kuryakin looks rough this morning, doesn't he?"_

" _He was late too...that's not like him. Do you think he's alright? Someone should ask."_

" _Bridget told me he was called into Mr Waverly's office late last night for brandies."_

" _Maybe he was giving him bad news from home. I hope his family is alright."_

" _He doesn't have any family, I've read his file, remember?"_

" _Well,_ something _must be wrong."_

The office door slammed shut behind him. Typical. When he'd first arrived here, everyone had been full of suspicions, certain that he was going to turn out to be a traitor. Now when he wanted them to look at him with suspicion, all he was hearing was concern.

Were Napoleon here, he'd probably remind him that should be a _good_ thing...and Illya really wished Napoleon was here. There was almost certainly going to be a lot of people trying to kill him over the next few weeks; having his partner there to watch his back would make him feel a thousand times better. Not to mention that Napoleon was the strategist, not him, and he could really do with a brilliant plan right about now. The temptation to call Napoleon last night had been competing with the urge to get drunk, and he'd known that both were equally counter-productive. For one thing, he couldn't be sure that the relays were not being monitored. In these circumstances, he intended to assume all communication channels were compromised until proven otherwise. And for another, he had no doubt that Napoleon would indeed abandon his vacation and come straight back to New York to watch Illya's back...and that was precisely what Mr Waverly didn't want.

If he was to join THRUSH he had to appear entirely alone and isolated.

Joining THRUSH. The thought left a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. The truth was, as little as he wished to be sent back home, particularly in the air of disgrace that being dismissed from UNCLE implied, joining THRUSH was never, ever going to be a solution. So what he had to do was present a version of himself where that would be the answer – angry, bitter and desperate to survive. A mask he could conceal himself beneath, and he tried not to consider that the anger at least wasn't so much of a reach.

He hated feeling like his life was nothing more than a chess piece to be toyed with at another's whim. And he hated knowing that Mr Waverly had chosen him for this assignment not because he was the best, or the most suited, but simply because he was the one who would most easily be believed a traitor.

There was a knock at the door and a second later, Mark Slate opened it and stuck his head round. "Morning!" he said with the sort of brightness that would probably irritate Illya even on a good day. "You interested in that rematch you promised me? I got time booked in the gym."

Oh, yes, their sparring match from last week. Mark had been working on incorporating more ju -jitsu into his fighting style; he'd wanted the practice. "I'm not in the mood, Mark," he said coldly, adjusting the piles of papers on his desk.

"Because Napoleon left you holding the fort?" Mark guessed. "C'mon, mate, if you spend the whole week trying to get caught up on his paperwork, you're going to get soft. An hour in the gym will help you focus...unless you're scared of me beating you?"

This could be just the sort of opening he needed. And exactly the sort of opening he didn't want. Duty before everything, he reminded himself grimly. This had to be done. "Fine," he said shortly. "I will see you down there."

"Great!" Mark grinned. "It's just what you need to blow those cobwebs away."

There was sympathy in his eyes, Illya realised. Whatever rumours were flying around, Mark had certainly already heard them, and this sparring match was a pretext for checking on him. Probably it would be followed up by an invitation to a friendly drink after work with him, and possibly April. He hated this.

No matter; his personal feelings really weren't important here. He headed down to the gym and changed quickly, and was quietly satisfied to see they would have an audience for their match. Alright. He could do this.

For the first couple of minutes he let things go as they normally would, both of them holding back, warming up and having a chance to assess each other. The only difference was, he shut down Mark's every attempt at conversation during the bout.

Mark had dislocated his shoulder a couple of weeks ago and hadn't quite got his full range of mobility back yet. He favoured his left side. That was all the opening he needed; time to turn this sparring match into a fight.

He went on the offensive with a viciousness that Mark didn't have a chance to react to, each blow carefully targeted, not just to where he couldn't block, but to where would cause the most pain. It was swift, it was brutal, and it was obviously uncalled for.

"Illya, what the hell?" Mark demanded spluttering as he grabbed hold of Illya's shoulder, and he was trying to restrain, not attack. A mistake; Illya seized his hand, twisting enough to dislocate the thumb, before snapping his arm back forcefully, his elbow catching Mark in the face with full force and he winced internally as he felt the cartilage give way. He didn't let up though, spinning and sweeping Mark's legs out from under him in one quick movement. "Enough!" Mark gasped. "Enough, I give up."

His face was covered in blood.

With clinical precision, Illya kicked him just below the ribs, knowing it would hurt and leave him on the ground a few more minutes. "You are too slow to react, Mr Slate," he said coldly. "And you leave your guard down when you should not."

He turned and walked away, his face expressionless. The entire room was staring at him as though they'd never seen him before. Their shock and fear couldn't touch him.

"Illya..." Mark called after him as he struggled to sit up, but he didn't seem to have any idea what he was going to say.

Honestly, there probably wasn't a lot one could say in this situation. He went upstairs to the commissary, got himself a cup of coffee and watched the rumours slowly spread. People who had been in the gym whispered urgently to those who had not, and soon it seemed the entire room was very carefully trying not to look at him. He was sure it could only be a matter of time before official censure, and sure enough after a few moments his communicator sounded.

He ignored it and carried on drinking his coffee.

Five minutes after that, Nicola Golding appeared, looking at him nervously. "Mr Kuryakin? Mr Waverly would like to see you in his office."

"Would he?" he asked truculently and made no attempt to stand.

"Yes," she said anxiously. "Right away."

"I see." He slowly finished his coffee while she hovered over him. "Very well, then. I suppose we had best go."

Mark was already waiting in Mr Waverly's office, along with a few of the Section III agents who had been in the gym. There to act as witnesses, he supposed, and that was good. Again, more of an audience would make this simpler and make it more likely that word of his actions would make its way to the traitors and then to THRUSH.

It was an effort to keep from looking guilty when he got a good look at Mark. The junior agent's eyes were swollen almost shut, and there was a bandaid across his nose. He looked as though he had been a victim of a brutal beating which was, of course, more or less the truth.

He took a seat without being asked with a calculated air of insolence.

Mr Waverly looked at him with a frown, but didn't address it directly. "Mr Kuryakin. You are aware of why I wanted to see you."

"Of course," he said coolly, with a glance at Mark. Hopefully, once this was all over, he would have a chance to apologise.

"From what I've heard from Mr Slate, and the other witnesses, your attack was entirely unprovoked," Mr Waverly went on. "Would you care to explain yourself?"

He took a moment, lounging back in his chair. "Does it really matter?" he said finally. "What are you going to do, send me back to Russia? You are already doing that, remember? Sir."

There was an audible gasp. Mr Waverly's face might have been carved from stone.

"What?" Mark demanded, shock and outrage in his voice. "You can't be serious, that's bonkers!"

He blinked at the unexpected defence before immediately schooling his face into a scowl.

"Everyone get out," Mr Waverly said firmly. "Except you, Mr Kurykain," he added, as Illya made to stand.

Just what he'd been expecting. He went back to lounging, and it wasn't until the door had closed that he sat up straight, intent and respectful.

"I won't ask if that was necessary," Mr Waverly said sternly.

He shrugged and made no apology. "It was expedient."

"Good," Mr Waverly said. "Don't forget it. There's no real damage done, Mr Slate will heal soon enough. And I have no doubt that word of this little escapade, and your outburst, will spread quickly. Now, is there anything you need?"

"Yes," he said, nodding. "If I am to make an approach to THRUSH, it would help if I had some information to give them, as a show of good faith."

"I'd already thought of that," Mr Waverly said, walking over to his desk and producing a file. "This is some of the information I was intending to release through Mrs Golding, to make the misinformation believable. It includes some minor operations we can afford to have compromised and some caches and dead drops we can afford to lose. Nothing that will lead to any casualties."

Good. He didn't think he could easily stand to have that on his conscience. "Thank you, sir," he said, carefully tucking the file away beneath his jacket. "I will let you know once I have made contact." He glanced towards the door. "Do you think that is long enough?"

Mr Waverly smiled. "As you pointed out, supposedly I don't have anything left to threaten you with. Although I suppose I should make it public that you are no longer to be considered number two of Section II..."

That was neither surprising, nor, hopefully, permanent. Somehow, it still hurt. "Of course, sir."

"Go," Mr Waverly said, with a professional nod. "And do try to leave me some agents in one piece, won't you?"

He smiled painfully. "I'll try my best, sir."

Seeing Mark waiting outside for him wasn't a surprise, but he still strode right past him without so much as a sideways glance.

"Illya, wait up," Mark called. "What's going on here? Mr Waverly can't really be sending you back to the USSR, right?"

"That is none of your business," he snapped, not looking round. More grist for the rumour mill at least.

Walking quickly, he headed for the exit, and wasn't entirely surprised when April stepped out in front of him, her eyes bright with fury. "What's this I hear about you and Mark?" she demanded.

He looked at her coldly. "He should have defended himself better," he said.

"April, hang on. I'll explain," Mark said as he caught up, and Illya took advantage of the distraction to slip past her and out.

The cold, fresh air came as something of a relief. Already, the air around him felt oppressive. So far so good, and now came the next step. Making contact with THRUSH.

He took a circuitous route to a little bookshop just on the edge of Battery Park he knew to be a THRUSH drop point. Fortunate, perhaps, as he had his doubts it could make any money as a bookshop – the air smelled damp and musty, and the lighting was gloomy and unwelcoming. He walked up to the counter slowly and the man glanced up and did a double take.

Good. Clearly he had been recognised. That should make everything simpler.

"Good afternoon," he said with a slight smile. "I am looking for a particular book – American Birds, by Alexander Worple. Do you have it in stock by any chance?"

The bookseller blinked slowly, his mouth gaping. "Uh...uh..." He swallowed, and seemed to decide that in the absence of other instructions, he might as well proceed with the pass phrase, even if his contact was inexplicably an UNCLE agent. "No, but I can order it in for you, if you care to leave your name and address."

"Certainly," Illya nodded and he waited expectantly until the man remembered himself enough to shove the pad of paper and a pencil across the counter.

He stared down at it for a long moment. Now this was truly the point of no return.

Carefully, he printed out details of the third operation that had been on the list Mr Waverly supplied. That should serve as the convincer. And then, below it, he scrawled.

' _Tell Rex to contact me if he wants to talk._

 _IK'_

There. It was done. And now, all he could do was wait.

* * *

 **So what do you think so far?**


	2. Chapter 2

**Second chapter and already I suspect this is going to be longer than I initially thought.**

* * *

Two days went by with nothing. Illya had no doubt that the information he had provided was being checked out and his message considered. It didn't make the waiting easier.

In the meantime, he occupied himself with being unbearable. There were plenty of voices speaking up in his defence, indignant that he was being sent away, and plenty others eager to commiserate or suggest ways he could get back in Mr Waverly's favour, and the fact that he met each soft word with sarcasm and bile was a source of almost physical pain. It wasn't as though he'd thought himself hated, but he'd always maintained a certain professional distance. He'd had no idea he was so popular. Of course there were those who took pleasure in his supposed downfall, but even they were at least hiding their smiles behind their hands.

It was, of course, worse facing his fellow Section II agents. They were the ones he'd worked with closely, the ones who had relied on him in the field, and even at his rudest – even with his unprovoked attack on Mark – he hardly compared to the usual threats they faced. April and Mark in particular took to hanging around in his office, trying to lull him into talking, until eventually, in desperation, he drove them away with a series of cutting remarks about Mr Waverly.

" _He does not care for what this organisation stands for, all he cares about is the influence he can leverage across the world. We are all just pawns to him, expendable and insignificant. My country has seen a string of men like him."_

When they walked away, he could see the disappointment in their eyes. He told himself it didn't matter.

Really, the way he was going, fairly soon he wasn't going to have a place here at all. If THRUSH didn't jump, he might still have burned all his bridges.

Consequently, it was actually a relief when on his way into work on the third day, an old lady with a shopping cart collided with him and he felt her slip her hand into his pocket and place a note. At last.

He apologised without looking too closely at her, and walked half a block before concealing himself in a doorway with a crowd of loud smokers and carefully unfurling it.

 _'Meet at Ricardo's hotdog stand at noon. Your contact will be wearing a blue flower. Come alone.'_

Well, they were prepared to find out what he wanted at least. "May I borrow a match?" he asked the man next to him, and he lit the note on fire and let it burn to ash. He caught the man staring at him oddly and smiled. "I am trying to quit," he explained.

He got into the office late again, not that it particularly mattered. With his responsibilities taken away, and his transfer back to the USSR being imminently arranged, he didn't have much work to do at all. Mr Waverly had sent him on a couple of milk run courier missions within the city, probably to lend the appearance of a further insult to keep him angry, but in reality he suspected Mr Waverly simply couldn't abide the thought of an agent sitting around headquarters doing nothing.

At any rate, there wasn't much to do but sit and play tic-tac-toe with himself and leave the door ajar to listen to all the speculation as to who was to take over from him. Walter Lewis and April Dancer were the two names most often mentioned. They both had their merits, but personally he thought April could use a little more experience, and Walter didn't have quite the attention to detail he would like...and now he was seriously considering who should step into his shoes. This was almost like he was here, watching the world go by after his death. He was a ghost. What a ridiculously fanciful thought.

He glanced over at Napoleon's empty desk, wondering what his friend would say. The gossip was that Mr Waverly was waiting until Napoleon returned to make any sort of official decision regarding the new number two agent. Were this real, Illya might think that cruel. Even as it was, he knew Napoleon would be walking back into far too many things that would make him angry. It was tempting to leave him a note, explaining everything. After all, he was not altogether confident that he would be returning from this assignment. That would mean that the last time he saw Napoleon would have been the night before Napoleon left on his vacation. He'd invited Illya out for a drink, but he'd said no because he wanted to finish studying the laser they'd found in Paraguay. He should have said yes. Why hadn't he said yes? There was no neat ending here. He could write a note, hide it in Napoleon's desk...and if someone else found out, he'd be sure to end up dead. No. That was not an option.

He left early; stepping out into the corridor just in time to hear William Hart loudly ask "But if Napoleon does decide to promote Walter, he'll have to be partnered with him, right?" before he turned and saw Illya and the embarrassed silence spread instantaneously.

Really, he might as well be ringing a bell here.

He affected not to notice and walked straight past. Somehow, he didn't think Napoleon would take another partner, no matter what happened.

He got to the hotdog stand in plenty of time and waited, trying to spot snipers from the surrounding windows, or idling cars waiting to pounce. If it turned out this Rex didn't have much curiosity, he could be setting himself up for a very short and unpleasant time. There was nothing obvious though, and at three minutes to twelve, a tall, willowy brunette in a white dress with a blue flower stuck through her elaborate hair do strode up to the hotdog stand and stood just beside it, tapping her foot impatiently.

Interesting. He didn't imagine she was Rex, but then it was very unlikely that Rex would make direct contact himself at this stage. More than likely they were expecting some sort of official approach...or a rather clumsy trap.

He gave it five minutes before strolling over himself, taking note of the way her eyes widened briefly. Probably there had been some discussion as to whether or not he would show up. He wondered whether he was being considered brave or foolish. "Good afternoon," he said pleasantly.

"You came alone?" she asked in an undertone, looking behind him.

"Yes," he agreed. "Although I suspect neither of us can guarantee with one hundred percent satisfaction that we have not been followed. You know, it's going to look much less suspicious if you buy me a hotdog."

She stared at him for a moment. "You're certainly no gentleman, Kuryakin," she said huffily, walking up to the stand. "Two, please," she said, reaching into her purse and producing the money with ill-grace.

Illya took the opportunity to look inside her purse. A small revolver. Good. He liked knowing where he stood, and there wasn't much room in that dress to conceal any other weapons.

"Here," she said, holding out the hotdog towards him grumpily.

He smiled and reached out and took the one in her _other_ hand. "Thank you," he said.

She laughed, half-amused, half-scornful."A little paranoid, aren't you?"

"My present circumstances suggest a healthy dose of paranoia may be called for," he told her.

"Yes. We've heard about that." She eyed him curiously. "So what is it that you want?"

"Mustard," he said decidedly, pushing past her and layering up the mustard and ketchup onto the sausage. "Other than that...I find myself in need of a new job. I heard your organisation might be hiring."

There was a long moment of silence.

"You want to join THRUSH," she said at last. " _You..._ want to join THRUSH."

"Want to?" He shrugged and took a large mouthful of hotdog, making sure to take his time savouring it. He needed to appear completely at ease with the idea. "Not especially. However, I think it might be the most sensible move at this stage. You can provide me with what I need and I have particular skills that your organisation would find exceedingly useful."

"No doubt..." she said slowly. "Alright. Say I buy it. Why Rex? You specifically addressed your little note to him. Why?"

"I don't know him," he pointed out. "That suggests that he is good at being discreet – a trait I prize. More importantly, it means there are no annoying personal grudges to get in the way of our business. Also, he is local, which as I am on a deadline here, is an important factor to consider."

Still, she hesitated.

"Look," he said intently. "Let us be honest here. I need your help, and helping me is good for your career. I have no doubt the reward for successfully turning an UNCLE agent must be something impressive."

"Oh, it is," she retorted. "But the reward for killing one isn't bad either. And that's far less likely to end in betrayal. "

"Perhaps," he said, letting his lips curl in an enigmatic smile. "But when has playing safe ever been fun?" Internally, he rolled his eyes just listening to himself. He sounded like Napoleon. But then, by the look on her face, it had been exactly what she wanted to hear.

"Alright," she agreed, a trifle breathlessly. "I'll set up a job interview for you with Rex's right hand man. All Bar One, tomorrow night at nine. Ask for Mr Fleming's table."

"Thank you," he said formally. "I look forward to working with you."

She clicked her tongue. "Don't get ahead of yourself Kuryakin. I still don't know if we can trust you."

"You'll need to wait and see," he said, and he turned and walked away, letting the remains of his hotdog drop into the bin. One step closer to joining THRUSH. He felt his stomach roll.

* * *

Alexander Waverly left his office late; with Alice safely away with the grandchildren there wasn't much to hurry home for. And he had a lot on his plate at the moment, with the new operational station being set up in Caracas and, of course, the small matter of THRUSH informants within headquarters. Not to mention he was having to shoulder the burden of the unavoidable disruption in Section II. He supposed he should just appoint an interim number two to replace Mr Kuryakin, but it seemed no man was entirely immune to superstition. It had felt too much like tempting fate.

He reached his car and nodded to the driver holding the door open for him as he settled into the back seat. Placing his briefcase on the seat beside him, he quickly checked again that he had all the papers he was planning on reading through tonight. Everything looked fine.

He glanced forwards to the driver as they pulled away. He had his cap pulled down and his collar turned up. "Is all this cloak and dagger stuff really necessary, Mr Kuryakin?"

"I was concerned that making contact with THRUSH and then going straight to see you might give the right impression, sir," Mr Kuryakin explained, seemingly unsurprised to have been spotted.

He nodded. "Good point. I trust, incidentally, that my regular driver isn't lying unconscious in a broom closet somewhere?"

"No, I made some changes to the schedule."

Another security breach. He supposed he shouldn't complain that his agents were quite so adept at finding loopholes in even the best security arrangements. "So what happened?"

"I made contact this afternoon," Mr Kuryakin said. "The contact was a woman – I didn't recognise her at the time, but I spent the rest of the afternoon in records and I believe she is a Lucie Swift – she was a minor part of a satrap four years ago. Evidently she has been promoted."

"Or she is considered expendable," he suggested.

"No," Mr Kuryakin disagreed. "She asked what I wanted and when I told her I was looking to join, she immediately told me to go to All Bar One tomorrow night at nine and ask for Mr Fleming. She feels she has the authority to make that decision."

"You could be right," Mr Waverly agreed slowly. "Tomorrow night? Evidently they're taking you seriously." Or they were planning on assassinating him. Unfortunately, he was unable to completely dismiss that possibility.

"She bought me a hotdog," Mr Kuryakin said contemplatively.

He snorted in amusement, well aware that his agent was trying to hide his unhappiness. He had no truck with self-pity, but he could admire stoicism in its place. "Well, that's something at least. I would hate to think that we were destroying your reputation for no reason." He grew serious. "You know that we cannot risk you acting as a double agent within UNCLE, even for a few days. There would be too much they could ask of you."

"I'm aware, sir." He nodded approvingly at the even tone.

"Here," he said, retrieving the little bottle of pills from his briefcase and passing them forwards. "Section VIII whipped these up – they should provide you with some resistance against the latest batch of truth serums THRUSH are using."

"Are there side effects?" Mr Kuryakin asked, slipping the bottle into his jacket pocket.

"Of course," he said. "They react directly against the serum, causing tachycardia and a severe headache at least. They haven't been field tested yet."

"As ever, I am happy to play the guinea pig," Mr Kuryakin said wryly. "Thank you, sir, no doubt it will come in useful."

No doubt. THRUSH would expect considerable assurances that Mr Kuryakin was no longer an UNCLE man.

"I won't expect to hear from you," he said finally as they pulled up in his driveway.

"No, sir," Mr Kuryakin agreed. He hesitated; clearly there was something more he wanted to say. "Sir, I appreciate in the circumstances I can hardly risk updating this, but I was hoping you could hold onto it for me and file it should it become necessary." He held out a familiar red folder. "My will," he added unnecessarily.

All Section II agents were required to file their wills and any last messages they wanted to pass on. They were encouraged to update them regularly, but he didn't know one of them who did. Indeed, he suspected that the only change Mr Kuryakin had made here was to include a letter to Mr Solo specifically regarding this assignment. He wasn't going to pry. He might be the leader of the largest spy network in the world, but some things were quite simply not his business.

"Of course," he promised steadily. "I'll take care of it." He offered no meaningless reassurance – they both understood what the risks were here. "Thank you, Mr Kuryakin."

He left the car and walked inside, regretting the empty house more than ever. Some days this job left him feeling cold.

* * *

Everything had been quiet for the last few days, which should probably be a nice thing, but now, April felt like this was the calm before the storm. What that storm might be, she didn't know, but she had a feeling it was going to be a doozy.

Illya beating up Mark had been the first rumblings of thunder. The revelation that Mr Waverly was planning on giving Illya back to the Soviets had been the second. And now, the last few days, there had been nothing but she wasn't fooled. Eventually, all storms had to break.

And she just didn't know quite what to think about any of it. She'd been furious when she'd heard that Illya had attacked Mark – because even in the context of a sparring match it had been an attack, of that she had no doubt. And Mark had explained what Illya had said like that explained everything and really, April wasn't so sure. Because Illya was always so controlled, and lashing out like that just wasn't like him. And no matter how awful things might be for him she couldn't easily excuse him taking his bad mood out on his friends.

And then too, she just couldn't believe that Mr Waverly was actually planning on sending Illya back. No one seemed to know exactly why, except that it wasn't so much about something that Illya had done, as about some political advantage it won them. The USSR had never fully embraced UNCLE, and if having Soviet agents was stopping the countries that did support their work from supporting them fully, she supposed that pragmatically speaking, a single agent didn't balance out. Except this was Illya – her friend, one of their top two agents. And she really couldn't believe that Mr Waverly didn't see his value. No, she thought that maybe this was all part of some plan of Mr Waverly's, and he was going to cancel the transfer at the last minute.

Only Illya himself really didn't seem to believe that, and if that _was_ Mr Waverly's plan, surely he'd have let Illya in on it at least? Oh, she just didn't _know._

"Penny for them, luv?" Mark's voice broke in to her thoughts.

She looked up and flashed a bright smile at him. He was standing by her desk, proffering her a piece of fruitcake on a napkin. "Where did that come from?" she asked.

"My sister," Mark said patiently. "I told you, she sent it across along with some decent chocolate and stuff."

"Oh, of course," she nodded. "Thank you," she added, taking the cake. "It looks...delicious."

"Little Janey helped her bake it," he said proudly as she took a bite.

She swallowed with difficulty. Yes. That certainly tasted like it had been made by a three year old. "It's lovely, darling," she smiled bravely.

He looked suspiciously at her, but thankfully didn't question the lie. "So what were you thinking about?" he asked.

"Oh..." She sighed. "Illya. Everything. I just wish there was more we could do."

"We tried talking to him, remember?" Mark said, ruefully rubbing at the healing bruises across his nose. "It didn't go well."

No, it hadn't. She grimaced. "I don't know, maybe we should call Napoleon after all?" She was sure that Napoleon would want to know about all this as soon as possible. Only when she'd suggested that to Illya he'd just glared at her and told her again to mind her own business.

"There was that memo went around," Mark reminded her. "It said that contacting agents on holiday was causing all sorts of problems and had to cease immediately."

They shared a look. Yes, the timing of that had been a little too pat. "I think it's going to cause more problems if Napoleon comes back to find Mr Waverly has deported his partner," she pointed out with a sigh.

Mark shook his head. "He'll be back before that," he said. "Napoleon's due back in a week, and apparently it's going to take twice that for things to be sorted out between their government and ours."

That was something at least. "Where did you hear that?" she started to ask, but she was interrupted by the intercom summoning them to Mr Waverly's office.

Good – an assignment could be just what she needed. Getting out of the office for a while sounded like a great idea.

Mr Waverly's expression was grave as they walked in. "Good morning Miss Dancer. Mr Slate. Please, take a seat. I'm afraid I have a difficult matter to discuss with you."

"What is it, sir?" Mark asked.

"This is going to be difficult to believe, but I have reason to believe that someone within Section II or Section III is betraying us to THRUSH," he said, his hands steepled together as he looked at each of them in turn.

"What?" she blurted out. That just couldn't be. None of them would do that.

"There's got to be a mistake," Mark agreed.

"I'm afraid not," Mr Waverly said regretfully. "The evidence appears clear. Further, it appears as though this traitor has another meeting scheduled with their THRUSH contact tonight – nine o'clock at All Bar One. Details are in these folders." He passed them over. "I need you to go along, unmask the traitor and capture both him and the contact. We need to know what information has been passed on so do take them both alive if possible."

Never mind finding out what had been passed on, April wanted to know _why._

This was all so wrong.

* * *

All Bar One was a bright, modern bar over two floors. Judging by the suits, most of the patrons were city workers enjoying several drinks before heading home. Not really Illya's sort of place, but at least it was circumspect. It needed to be – he'd had to spend half an hour losing his KGB followers before heading to the rendezvous. They were a constant presence outside of his apartment now. He'd even found some listening devices inside last night, and that just made his skin crawl. The oppressive atmosphere was unbearable. He'd managed to fool himself into believing he was free of all that.

With an effort, he left his dark thoughts outside. He had to focus on THRUSH. "Good evening," he said to the hostess. "I am looking for Mr Fleming's table?"

"Oh, yes," she said. "Mr Fleming's representative is just over there." She pointed towards the bar, and a dapper-looking man in a blue suit waved cheerily at him before coming over.

"Mr Kuryakin?" he said, walking over and holding his hand out. "I'm Nick Gulley. It's good to meet you – I'm a fan of the work you've done with your uncle."

He raised an eyebrow. "I'm surprised to hear that, Mr Gulley."

"Oh, please, call me Nick," he said. "Now, let's just head over to the coat check quickly, shall we?"

There was a very large man waiting at the coat check who glared at Illya suspiciously.

"A friend of yours?" he murmured.

Nick smiled. "Yes," he said, carefully removing his coat and letting Illya see the gun tucked inside. "I always think that job interviews go better when no one is going to get shot, don't you?"

He hesitated for a second before handing over his own gun and coat. "Yes, but now you have your heavily armed friend here," he pointed out. "While I have no friends at all."

"Don't worry," Nick said. "Kurt here is going to wait right here while we talk. Now, what are you drinking?" He led Illya to a table on the upper level, near the stairs and with a good view of the exits and most of the bar floor.

"Vodka, please," he said absently, looking round for any sign of a trap. Nothing, as far as he could see...no. Wait. That table in the far corner. That looked like Mark and April. He was ashamed to feel a flash of relief. Back-up. He could really use it.

"With coke, or with tonic?" Nick asked expectantly.

He blinked and looked around. "Straight. And cold," he told the waiter.

"And a Martini for me," Nick said. "Dry, with an extra olive. Thank you."

"I have never actually had a job interview before," he said slowly. "But do they normally start with alcohol?"

"From everything I hear, you're a man who could use a drink," Nick smiled. "So, Illya – may I call you Illya?" He nodded. "Why don't you tell me what THRUSH can do for you?"

And here it began. His mouth was dry. "You are aware that my organisation is intent on sending me back to the USSR," he said, his eyes fixed on Nick's. "I don't want to go. However, I'm well aware that if I simply vanish on my own, I will have the KGB, the US government, UNCLE and THRUSH after me. Alone, it's unlikely that I would be able to survive against all of them forever. The US government obviously does not want me, UNCLE and KGB have already thrown me away. But THRUSH..." He shrugged. "You have the resources to protect me. And you are hardly discriminating in who you will work with."

"A reasonable speech," Nick agreed. "You make it sound like the practical choice. But you know, Illya, your loyalty to UNCLE has always been beyond question. We've never even tried to make you an offer because it's always been regarded as pointless."

"I should have refused any offer you made before now," he said immediately. "Before this week, UNCLE always met my price. But loyalty is a two way street. If they are not loyal to me, why should I stay loyal to them?"

The drinks arrived and he took a long sip and watched Nick's face across the table. The man was a closed book. But not convinced, he thought.

He sighed, and turned his glass round and round between his fingers. "You are aware that UNCLE removes its agents memories when it discards them?" he asked.

Nick nodded slowly. "I've heard that. A good disincentive to prevent us from abducting your people when they retire or quit."

" _UNCLE's_ people," he corrected. "And yes. But my countrymen tend to be more stubborn. When I am sent back to Moskva, I will likely end my days being tortured within the basement of Lubyanka for information I no longer possess. KGB methods tend to be cruder than yours. They like fire. And knives. And if, by some chance, I escape that fate I will be summarily executed for my failure, or else die a slow death in a forced labour colony. You know the conditions in those camps? The squalor, the beatings, the starvation, the...the отчаяние. Do not ever let anyone tell you that the gulags died with Comrade Stalin."

Was it his imagination or was Nick looking paler?

He sighed and looked down at the table for a long moment and when he finally looked up and spoke again, he let a little more Russian creep into his accent. "Please understand me when I tell you; I am not afraid to die. I simply enjoy living."

Nick gazed at him for a long moment before awkwardly clearing his throat. "Boy," he said, in a clear expression of sympathy. "UNCLE really screwed you over, didn't they?"

"Yes," he said, maybe a little too quickly, soul still raw from so much honesty.

Fortunately, Nick didn't seem to notice anything strange in his eagerness – perhaps there wasn't. "Okay," he said. "Well, I can certainly see why you want to join us, Illya. Now, what are you offering us? Information?"

"No." He shook his head decidedly. He had to stop that thought dead if he could. "No, if information is a man's only value then that man ceases to be worth keeping around the man once the information dries up. I wish to work for you as an agent."

Nick nodded, not looking especially surprised. "Then I guess this is the point of the interview where you try and dazzle me with your resume."

He took a drink, struggling for a second beneath a wave of unreality. "Well, I am sure you already know my background," he said dryly. "I am a crack shot, a skilled hand-to-hand combatant, and I speak eight languages fluently and can get by in a dozen more. I have extensive survival experience, I can fly a plane or a helicopter. I am a demolitions expert, and I hold a PhD in Quantum Mechanics. I studied a Tbilisi, Cambridge and the Sorbonne, and have plenty of experience using that knowledge in the lab and the field." This was ridiculous. But Nick was looking amused. So far it hadn't been the practicalities that had impressed him, it had been the human connection. "As far as experience goes, I can point you towards a great many THRUSH operations that I have shut down, often in creative and lethal ways. I can neither cook nor sew, but I _can_ dance a passable tango."

"That's funny," Nick said with a snort of laughter. "You know, your file suggested you don't have much of a sense of humour. I must remember to update that."

He raised an eyebrow. "What makes you think I was joking? Really, was there anything there you did not already know?"

"No," Nick said. "But I wanted to see what you thought I would think was important."

Hmmm. He ran back over what he'd said in his head and wondered if that was good or bad.

"Now," Nick went on. "You said earlier that UNCLE didn't meet your price. This is the part of the interview where we discuss just what that might be."

He'd have thought that obvious. "Security, first of all," he said, leaning back to look at Nick. "I require protection against UNCLE and the KGB and anyone else who might be looking to send me back or arrest me."

"And beyond that?" Nick asked.

He hesitated momentarily. Beyond that? "A British passport," he said after a fraction of a second. "A genuine one, naturally – I can get fakes for myself."

Nick nodded. "British? Not American?"

"My American accent is...a work in progress," Illya admitted. "The UK is easier for me to blend in."

"So security and a passport," Nick said. "Anything else?"

"Money," he said with a shrug. "I have found I rather like it. I am a man of simple needs and desires, but still I want to be able to indulge them and I want the freedom to do so."

"As an agent of THRUSH, you will find your basic salary far exceeds what UNCLE offers," Nick told him. "Plus there are numerous opportunities to earn bonuses. Anything else?"

"Isn't that enough?" Illya asked. Then he caught sight of the waiter walking past. Mmm. Actually... "A steak," he said decidedly. "Well done. I don't care for the taste of blood."

"A steak," Nick agreed with a laugh. "Well, I've heard worse reasons to turn traitor. Thank you, Illya. I don't think that any of that should present a problem. Now, what we need to do - "

" - don't move!" Mark's voice rang out as cold as ice. He looked up to see the junior agent standing over the table, his gun half-concealed in his jacket but still indisputably covering them. His eyes were hard and expressionless. April was standing a little behind him, flanking them. She looked...well, she looked like she'd just caught him betraying everything she believed in.

And to think he'd thought he had backup. Stupid, stupid. Too caught up to see the larger shape of the plan. No doubt there'd been a listening device concealed on the table. He should have spotted that, but all his attention had been on THRUSH.

He had to find a way to handle them. Some way to get out of here without making the situation worse...and without getting shot.

He sighed and looked at his watch. "Twelve minutes to intervene when you believe your fellow agent is betraying UNCLE secrets?" he asked disapprovingly. "Really, I would have thought better of the two of you. Mr Waverly is going to be very disappointed at the results of this little test." They didn't believe him, not completely, but he could see the tiny creases of doubt, the way Mark's gun dipped slightly.

"Test?" Mark repeated. "That didn't exactly sound like a test to me, mate."

"Mr Waverly's idea," he said coolly. "Here, I will call him if you don't believe me." He reached towards his jacket and his communicator.

"Don't," Mark warned, terse and predictable.

He made a point of freezing, his right hand resting on his lapel. "It's like I told you earlier, Mark," he said with a crooked smile as, unnoticed, he reached down with his left hand to the second gun in his ankle holster, and in one easy movement, drew and shoot beneath the table. Mark crumpled to the ground instantly, the sleep dart soundly embedded in his thigh. "You drop your guard when you should not," he finished. "Please don't move, April," he added sincerely, already aiming at her.

The shot had been silent, but Mark falling hadn't, and there were gasps of shock and exclamations of confusion from all around. This was no place for a gunfight. Particularly if THRUSH got involved with their more lethal guns...though it looked as though Kurt at the coat check was nowhere in sight.

"How could you?" April asked, her voice low and angry.

"Very easily, as it happens," he said, keeping her covered while he reached down and grabbed Mark's gun. "Now, April, you're going to back up and let my new friend and I walk out of here."

"That's not going to happen, darling," she flared. She was angry, he noted clinically. As well she might be.

"You had a second gun?" Nick asked disapprovingly.

"Don't tell me you did not," Illya said, though really in this situation, less weapons was probably a good thing.

"No," Nick said. "One of us at this table is a man of honour."

"Honour is overrated," he said dryly.

"Clearly," April snapped. "How could you betray us like this, Illya? We were friends. And Napoleon - "

" - it's nothing personal," he cut in quickly, not wanting to hear her thoughts on what Napoleon would make of all this, "I just want to survive. You can understand that, can't you April?"

"Of course." She spoke scornfully. "Anything to survive, just like a rat."

The hatred and disgust in her voice were so alien that for a bizarre moment he wondered if it _was_ all an act after all? If maybe Mr Waverly had decided to take her into his confidence? But no – that was wishful thinking. He didn't deserve her ire, but he _had_ earned it. And now he must play his part to the end.

He kept her covered with Mark's gun and pointed his own towards Mark's head. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to insist that you move back and let us go. Or else you will leave me no choice but to kill your partner."

"Really, darling?" she demanded. "Do you actually expect me to fall for that? I've already seen your gun is loaded with sleep darts."

"A dart is still a projectile which travels in excess of a thousand miles an hour," he told her calmly. "From this distance, fired directly into Mark's eye...well. The effect would be quite unfortunate, I assure you. I have made use of it a few times, when our orders conflicted with my desires."

"You're lying," she whispered.

Yes. Oh, yes. He shrugged. "If that is your choice..." he said, taking careful aim.

"Stop!" she said, like he knew she would. In her shoes he thought he would do the same.

"Alright," she said in a low voice, taking a couple of steps back.

Room enough to stand up without risking her reaching him.

"We have a car waiting you back," Nick said. "In the circumstances, Illya, I think we can take your recruitment as read."

"Thank you," he said ironically, taking a careful step towards the stairs. There were people gathered around, but none of them seemed inclined to intervene. Good.

April made as if to follow, but he shook his head threateningly. "At this point, there is no way for you to capture us. Give up."

She gazed fixedly at him. "This isn't going to end well for you, Illya. You know what happens to traitors. We will hunt you down."

He should be so lucky. He took one last look at her. "Please. Tell Napoleon I am sorry."

* * *

 **A/N: Thanks for reading...still enjoying it?**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Sorry this took longer than expected, but the next chapter will be posted this weekend so that's something, right?**

* * *

His heart was pounding in his chest as he followed Nick out to the car. Kurt was already there, scowling to see the guns still in Illya's hands. "What happened?" Kurt demanded.

"Slight change of plans," Nick explained urbanely. "There are two UNCLE agents back there who are very angry with our new recruit here. We really need to get out of here sharpish."

"Or we could just put a bullet in Kuryakin's head and move on with our lives," Kurt answered.

"That is not my preferred option," Illya said, glancing over his shoulder. "Slate will be out for a while, but Dancer _will_ be right behind us. She is very persistent."

"Do you really trust him?" Kurt demanded, ignoring Illya completely.

"We can argue about it later," Nick said, deflecting the question entirely. Illya took careful note of the dynamic between them; it didn't seem as though either man thought himself in charge which, if he was careful, left clear room for him.

"We really do not have time for this," he said, pulling out his communicator and ID and making a point of tossing them carelessly into the dumpster. "Wherever we are going I, for one, have no wish to be followed." He patted himself down hurriedly as though seeking out a tracking device, and he was surprised at the flash of relief when he didn't find one. None of this was real, remember...except April and Mark's reaction had been real enough. He was a traitor now. He had to remember that. He had to _believe_ that, or else he was a dead man. Without waiting for their reaction, he got into the back of the car. "Let us go."

Thankfully they followed his lead, Nick driving and Kurt in the front seat. "Shouldn't we blindfold him if we're taking him to Rex?" Kurt demanded, twisting round to look at him.

"There is no point," Illya answered coolly before Nick got the chance. "Either I will be one of you, or else you shall have the joy of shooting me in the head. Either way, I am not going to be telling anyone where we are going."

"Exactly," Nick said, glancing in the rearview mirror and flashing him a pleased smile. "And let me say, I'm hoping for the former here."

"Thank you," he said seriously.

He leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. There were all sorts of questions he was desperate to ask, but asking too much too quickly would make him look suspicious. He was not home and safe yet. And were he prizing his own survival before all other concerns, that would be all that mattered to him, after all.

Unbidden, the image of April's face, eyes bright with hatred and rage came to his head. She would have called in a report by now. Mr Waverly would have issued an alert to all personnel, to hesitate in doing so would be beyond suspicious. He assumed that the order would be to capture, not kill, but then he hadn't been told that Mark and April were going to be at the bar tonight. Mr Waverly had trusted him to find his own way out of the situation, and he couldn't argue that had given the whole thing an air of realism. But perhaps Mr Waverly might trust him to avoid a kill order as well. Either way there would be UNCLE agents – his former friends – coming after him. And as little as he wished to be shot, the alternative was worse. Mark was going to be fine; he'd wake up with nothing more than a slight headache. From now on...well. THRUSH did not use sleep darts.

He had to push all this from his mind. No regrets, no looking back, no compassion. He was cold and he was ruthless and more importantly _he always had been._

They stopped at a large house on the outskirts of Westchester. "Very nice," he said. "I especially appreciate the machine gun placement above the door.

Nick laughed. "We must conceal that better. We get a lot of problems with door-to-door-salesmen, you know. They're a scourge on modern society. Now, just step into the lobby and let Kurt and I search you properly."

He did and stood impassively as they removed the guns, the incendiary device hidden in his watch, the knife in his shoe and his explosive money clip. They missed his buttons, but they were little more than flash-bangs, which also did the important job of holding his jacket shut. They also missed the pills Mr Waverly had given him, now safely concealed in a bottle of aspirin and that he could breathe a sigh of relief over.

"I'm sorry about this," Nick said apologetically. "It's nothing personal. I want to believe you, I really do, but if I'm wrong about you, I would hate to be the one standing in front of my superiors going 'Well, I didn't bother searching the UNCLE agent because he seemed like a nice guy.'"

"I do not believe anyone has ever referred to me as a 'nice guy' before," he said.

"Well, you've never joined an international criminal organisation before, have you?" Nick pointed out. "It's a day of firsts. I think we're ready. Come on."

He noticed that Nick and Kurt took up flanking positions, just behind him, their hands resting on their guns. Whatever Nick was saying, he was walking in here looking like a prisoner.

It was a large, dimly-lit room with a fireplace in one corner, and a long table down the middle. At the head, there was a slightly raised platform area and that was where Rex was sitting in a chair that while it wasn't throne-like in appearance, was undoubtedly so in placement. He was an older man, perhaps mid-sixties with thick grey hair and a hawkish nose, and the stare coming Illya's way was gimlet sharp. Lucie was standing just beside him, her hand resting familiarly on his arm.

"So," Rex said, after a pause that had stretched on just a little too long for comfort. "This is the UNCLE agent that has all my people in such a flutter. It's funny. I thought you would be taller."

"I get that a lot," he said dryly. "It's good to meet you, sir."

"Mmm, perhaps." Rex continued to study him. "My girl here tells me that UNCLE already knows that you have betrayed them. So all the information I could have obtained from you is useless before we've even began. So tell me, Mr UNCLE agent. Why should I want to keep you around?"

Ah. He was certain that Lucie hadn't been in the bar tonight, which suggested that she had obtained the information from UNCLE itself. So she was probably the contact for Mrs Golding and whoever else were caught up in this trap – and they almost certainly had a way of contacting her with information.

And that was interesting and worth knowing, but perhaps of less immediate importance than him surviving the next five minutes.

He looked again at the organisation of the room. The table, the throne, this confrontation...Rex seemed inclined to live up to his soubriquet. More than likely a dramatic gesture would appeal to him. And Illya was excellent at dramatic gestures.

In one swift movement, he threw his elbows back, catching both Nick and Kurt squarely in the solar plexus, and as they doubled up, he punched first one then the other in the throat, grabbing their guns as they fell to the floor.

The whole thing had taken mere seconds, and he advanced towards Rex, tucking Kurt's gun into the back of his pants and reversing Nick's so he was holding it by the barrel, extending it towards Rex.

"I was never offering information," he said. "I was offering my services and my loyalty. And nothing about that has changed."

Lucie ran frantically towards a button on the wall and pressed it, and instantly alarms started blaring.

Illya paid no heed. Rex was still just watching him, and as he reached the platform he knelt, reaching up and pressing the gun into Rex's hand and leaning forwards until the barrel was resting directly on his forehead.

"I have already lost everything tonight," he said earnestly. "My life is in your hands. Kill me if you will – it will at least be quicker than the fate UNCLE has in store for me. But spare me, and I will be your man. I shall serve you faithfully for as long as I am able."

The gun was cold against his skin. Rex's eyes were dark and contemplative, and for a long moment, Illya wasn't sure what was going to happen. He had placed all his money on this single hand.

Behind him, he heard a door slam over and several men run in and come to a stop. "Wait!" Lucie said to them imperiously. "You are too slow."

He stayed, still kneeling, gazing up at Rex and waiting.

Finally, Rex laughed, taking the gun away. "Well said," he said. "I do like a man who does not beg for his life. What do you all think?"

"He is tricky," Lucie said and Illya could hear the scowl in her voice. "But I think he might be worth it. If we're careful."

He turned his head a little and saw Nick and Kurt were slowly getting to their feet. Three boiler-suited guards were standing behind them. The ones that responded to the alarm, he supposed.

"I saw the way those UNCLE agents were looking at him tonight," Nick said, rubbing his throat, his voice a hoarse whisper. "I think he's on the level. He's got nowhere else to turn."

"Yeah, and he left those UNCLE agents alive," Kurt pointed out harshly. "If he really wanted to prove himself he should have killed them."

Quickly, Illya looked back to Rex and made a show of rolling his eyes. "Had I killed them then, I would be placed right at the top of the hit list," he said. "There would be a large-scale coordinated man hunt for me and they would not stop until they had me. My hope is that in avoiding killing them in my escape, once the initial reaction to my betrayal wears off, I shall be just another THRUSH operative as far as UNCLE is concerned. To be captured or killed, certainly, but not worth throwing resources away for. After all, I am no use to you if I must be constantly looking over my shoulder."

"A very reasonable argument," Rex said benevolently. He reached out and rested his hand on Illya's head, as though offering benediction. "Very well. We will accept you into our little family for now."

The touch sent a cold shudder down his spine. He gave no reaction except a slight, cold smile. "Thank you," he said, getting to his feet cautiously.

"And now, I believe I will retire to bed," Rex announced, standing up himself and passing Illya back the gun. "This evening's entertainment has now concluded. Nick, you may make Illya comfortable tonight. Our official welcome will begin tomorrow."

He left, and the guards left shortly after.

Illya watched them go. "How many of us are there?" he asked.

"Well, the three of us – four of us, now – are Rex's main agents," Nick said, walking up beside him. "Beyond that, there are eight guards who handle security and low level operations. You know the sort of thing. They're good men, all carefully chosen, and all desperate to advance. You coming in here and walking straight into a position they covet is sure to make you popular."

"Popularity has never troubled me," he said.

"I'm sure." Nick looked at him thoughtfully. "May I have my gun back now?"

"Of course," he said, handing it over immediately. "And I am sorry about.." He gestured to Nick's throat with a grimace of apology.

"Think nothing of it," Nick said with a shrug. "Nothing personal, I understand. You had to make your point. Now, may I have the clip as well?"

He blinked, caught off guard. There was no way Nick could have seen that.

"You palmed the clip before you ever gave the gun to Rex," Nick said with a warm, patient smile. "You are an intelligent man, Illya. Do not make the mistake of thinking the rest of us are idiots."

Slowly, he returned the smile, and he reached up his sleeve and dropped the clip into Nick's outstretched hand. "I am doing this in an attempt to survive," he reminded Nick. "It would not make much sense to give someone a loaded gun to point at my head. Will you tell Rex?"

"Where would be the point in that?" Nick asked easily. "Now, I believe I owe you a steak, if you're still hungry?"

"Starving," he agreed frankly. It was the truth, and he suspected that talking casually over some food could get him more information than any more obvious questioning.

"Great," Nick grinned. "I make a mean steak. Lucie, Kurt, do you want to join us?"

"Yes please," Lucie agreed, and Kurt just grunted an affirmative. He walked up to Illya and held out his hand for his gun, and even as Illya handed it over he could see all the distrust in the man's eyes. Here at least was someone who did not believe him. Oh, well. He had been planning on watching his back anyway.

Nick wasn't lying about his cooking skills. The steak was easily among the best Illya had tasted. They ate around the kitchen table in a room that was warm and oddly homely, right down to the cross-stitch scene of ducks in a pond hanging just above the door.

"We don't have any vodka I'm afraid, but would you like a beer?" Nick asked him.

"Thank you," he agreed, accepting the offered bottle.

"If there is anything you particularly want, there's a shopping list taped to the fridge," Nick said, pointing with a spatula. "Snacks, booze, toiletries... as long as it's nothing too extravagant, no one will quibble. Lucie goes through a box of Godiva chocolates a week, don't you, darling?" He smiled at Lucie in a way that was suspiciously warm.

Lucie just rolled her eyes at him. "You'll find that THRUSH provide for most of your needs, Kuryakin," she said.

"Please," he said. "Call me Illya." Everyone here seemed to be on first name terms. He had best join in. "So do you all live in the house?" he asked curiously.

"We do," Nick agreed. "Rex likes us close by and close together. He finds it helps bind a team together."

Interesting set-up. Perhaps that was why this satrap had been off their radar – concentrated together like this there was less chance of any weak links.

He took a long swig of beer, and ignored the creeping horror in the back of his mind. He was sitting, drinking beer and relaxing with three THRUSH agents. "So," he said brightly. "Is it too early for me to ask exactly what it is we do here without arousing your suspicions?"

"Yes," Kurt growled, but Lucie placed a hand on his arm warningly.

"It's a fair question," she pointed out. "If Illya is going to be one of us, he's going to need to know what we're doing sooner or later." She turned to look at him. "We're something of a support team," she explained. "If another satrap needs information or a particular resource, they can come to us and we have the means of getting it."

"The means?" he asked casually, cutting his steak.

"We have a great many people we can call on," she said with a smile of pleasure. "Some of them are even your former workmates. And all of them will do our bidding whether they want to or not."

"Mental conditioning?" he asked, frowning. "That's a bit risky on a large scale, isn't it?"

Kurt snorted. "Typical UNCLE thinking," he said. "Always going for the most complicated option."

"It's less messy than that, thankfully," Nick said, with a look at Kurt. "And that's not our only option either. We often take a more direct route to getting the information we need. Don't worry, Illya, you'll find plenty of ways to use those skills you were telling me about."

No mention of the children. Not even a hint he could plausibly seize upon. And certainly there'd been no sign of them so far. Reluctantly, he decided not to push too hard right now. As much as he needed answers, he couldn't risk raising their suspicions so soon.

"That's good," he said, raising his beer as if in a toast. "I hate getting bored."

"To excitement, then," Nick said, clinking his beer against Illya's, his lips twitching.

The kitchen door opened suddenly, and one of the guards – a bear of a man – strode in, glowering at Illya. He looked familiar...

"What is it, Williamson?" Nick asked impatiently.

Williamson only had eyes for Illya. "So it is you," he snarled. "Remember me? Six months ago, in the diamond district? You knocked me on the head and stole my uniform."

Ah, yes. Of course.

There was a pause. Lucie looked the guard over and then frowned at Illya, looking him up and down. "I must admit," she said slowly. "I fail to see how that would work."

"Badly," he said dryly. "Very badly indeed." He thought of Napoleon telling stories against himself to get the right sort of chuckle. That might just help here. He smiled ruefully at the guard. "If it is any consolation, Williamson, once I had your uniform on, I tripped over the legs on the stairs and very nearly knocked myself out slamming my head against the wall."

The glare lessened slightly in the face of no hostility.

"I wish I had seen that," Nick chuckled.

Illya remembered wishing Napoleon _hadn't_ seen that. "To be fair to myself," he said with dignity. "I was already concussed before I began. And the leader of the satrap in question apparently had a thing for tall, muscular guards, which _did_ make it very difficult to find a uniform that fitted."

Kurt snorted. "So sorry that we made things inconvenient for you."

He waved a hand. "Not quite inconvenient enough. Which, since it led to us all sitting together, enjoying this fine food, does not strike me as immensely problematic."

"I'll drink to that," Nick said, raising his bottle again, and this time Lucie joined him, the smile apparent in her eyes, and a second later, Kurt grudgingly joined in as well. "To our new recruit."

These people were responsible for kidnapping children. These people had made Nicola Golding's life a living hell, and countless others along with her.

He smiled at them and drank.

It was late when Nick showed him to a warm and comfortable bedroom on the second floor. There was a double bed with a cheerful floral bedspread, a desk, a small bookcase with what looked like a mix of classics and cheap paperbacks, and a large oak wardrobe.

"You can furnish it however you like," Nick told him. "But I hope this will do for the moment."

"It is very nice," Illya said honestly. "I have lived in many places not nearly as comfortable. Thank you. For everything."

"My pleasure," Nick said. "I'll leave you to it. Goodnight."

"Goodnight," he echoed.

He chose not to go looking for surveillance devices. Whether they were there or not made little difference in the end. He kicked off his shoes and dry-swallowed one of the pills from the aspirin bottle. They were apparently good for twelve hours and he'd taken one just before the bar tonight. So far he hadn't needed them, but he was walking through a minefield here, and there was no such thing as safe ground.

After a second, he turned the light off and lay on top of the bed, staring into the darkness, his fingernails digging lightly into the palms of his hands.

 _Napoleon...what in the world am I doing here?_

* * *

It was now twelve hours since the world had absolutely stopped making sense, and April still felt like she was running to try and catch up.

Illya was a traitor. Illya was working for THRUSH. No matter how many times she said it in her head, it remained an impossible shock. She had stood and watched Illya stand in front of her and coldly threaten Mark's life like it meant nothing to him, and it still felt like a ridiculous nightmare.

She'd never seen Mr Waverly so coldly furious as when they'd reported in to him. His eyes had blazed with anger and disappointment, but his voice had been entirely expressionless when he'd given the order that Illya should now be regarded as an enemy combatant, with everything that implied. If she had only heard him, she might have thought it meant nothing to him at all.

And as she and Mark had recounted everything that had gone on in that meeting, it had been difficult to repeat all the reasons Illya had given for his betrayal. Everything that was waiting for him in the USSR...she couldn't forgive him for joining THRUSH, but at the same time, how could Mr Waverly have been willing to hand him over for that? But Mr Waverly had just brushed through all the horror as though it was nothing – he seemed much more interested in what Illya had described as his 'price'. Not that he'd dwelled on that either, but she'd seen a flicker of surprise – or _something –_ in his eyes that made her wonder.

Last week, Illya had been her tennis partner. Now, the next time she saw him she was going to be trying her very best to capture him, and that was only because she wasn't entirely sure she trusted herself to kill him.

"How did this happen?" she whispered.

Mark looked round at her, and she could see the misery, equal to her own, beneath his mask of professionalism. "I don't know," he said. "But we need to focus here."

Of course. Their obvious next step; tear apart the traitor's apartment looking for clues, or who knew _what._

She didn't know what she'd been expecting. Maybe that everything had been packed up in readiness, but actually, as far as she could tell, having never been here before, everything was undisturbed. She looked around curiously, and really, she supposed this was probably what she would have expected. The furniture was sparse and utilitarian, but everything was very clean and neat. An ancient record player and three mismatched bookshelves piled high with books were a reminder of Illya's interests. About the only decoration in the place was an abstract painting on the wall – stark, severe lines of colour that didn't seem to represent _anything_ to her eyes. A birthday present from Napoleon, she remembered, swallowing hard. The artist had been someone he and Illya had rescued as part of an assignment, and Illya had admired the man's work and so Napoleon had secretly commissioned something from him. She remembered again the pleasure Napoleon had taken in the delight in his partner's eyes when he'd seen the gift – it was about the only way Napoleon had been forgiven for organising that surprise party.

She couldn't afford to think about that now. She couldn't think of who she'd thought her friend had been, only what he'd shown himself to be.

Mark gave a low whistle. "Look at this," he said, calling her over to the kitchen.

Oh. She found herself looking down at the remains of four surveillance bugs, all of which had been thoroughly crushed with a hammer. Carefully, she picked through them. "These three are Russian designed," she said slowly. "I assume the KGB planted them. This one..." She looked up at Mark and stared unhappily. "This is one of ours, isn't it?"

"It certainly looks that way," Mark agreed. "I suppose Mr Waverly must have had more suspicions than he was willing to share with us."

God. She couldn't believe it.

"Do you think that's why he was handing Illya back to the Soviets?" Mark asked in a hushed voice.

She shook her head slowly. "I don't know," she said. "It's just...oh, darling, none of this makes sense."

"I know," Mark said, swiping his hand across his face. "You know the worst part? When he was telling that THRUSH bastard why he was doing this, I felt so angry for him. If he'd just chosen to run, I don't know that I'd have tried too hard to look for him."

No. Neither would she. But he hadn't; he'd thrown his lot in with THRUSH, even knowing everything that they did, even after so many years fighting back their monstrous plots, and that wasn't something she could forgive or understand. "Let's get on with it, darling," she said crisply.

They tore the place apart, not bothering to be neat. This wasn't a stealth operation, after all and it was extremely unlikely that Illya would be returning to his apartment. They found an assortment of weapons, a block of plastic explosives, and a medicine cabinet full of prescriptions filled by medical and then apparently rarely taken, but other than the surveillance devices, nothing that was truly unexpected.

"There's nothing here," Mark said, as he finished checking inside Illya's guitar.

"No," she agreed, dropping the last of the books back onto the shelf. "After all, it did sound like tonight was first meeting with them from everything they said."

"Yes..." Mark looked round as if making sure they weren't going to be overheard. "April, can you really believe Illya's a traitor?" he asked, soft and intent.

She looked at him for a long moment and bit her lip. "I don't know," she said honestly. "I don't want to believe it, but everything we heard tonight...it does make _sense._ " An awful kind of sense, but sense nonetheless. "The way I see it though, darling, there are only two possible options here. Either Illya was never the person we thought he was - "

" - or else he _is,_ " Mark finished, his face grim. "And that means - "

" - hush," she said, placing a finger firmly on his lips. "Don't even think it."

Mark nodded understandingly.

If, by some chance, Illya was undercover right now, there was only one reason she could think of for Mr Waverly not telling them. And if UNCLE was compromised, they needed to act as though they believed one hundred and fifty percent that Illya had betrayed them all.

And if Illya _had_ betrayed them...well. She knew how that had to end.

* * *

 **A/N: So, what do you think?**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: And another chapter - I'm currently thinking this is probably going to be around 10 chapters long. For those who are curious.**

* * *

Unsurprisingly Illya slept badly, his dreams full of vague threads of horror and dread. Every small noise throughout the night had him awake in an instant, looking round, searching for the threat. Even more unsurprisingly, he was rudely awoken in the morning when Kurt slammed the door open and he and two guards marched in and dragged him out of bed.

"Morning, sunshine," Kurt grinned, smacking him hard in the face. "We just have a few last questions to ask you. Just to try and settle the question of your loyalties once and for all."

"Mmm." He shook his head rapidly as though trying to clear it. "And I did not think I asked for a wake up call."

The guards seized his arms and hauled him away down the stairs to a far less comfortable room.

He looked at the narrow hospital bed complete with leather straps and bloodstains. Of course. How unquestionably familiar.

"You are aware," he remarked casually to Kurt. "That I am well acquainted with THRUSH hospitality? I am not known for breaking under the pressure."

"That's alright," Kurt said, rummaging through a drawer and coming up with a syringe and a vial of some drug. "Rex doesn't want you broken. Just cracked open a little so we can see inside."

He glanced up at one of the guards holding his right arm. "You see?" he said gloomily. "This is why I should have had a lawyer look over my contract."

The next few hours passed in a blur of pain and drugs. The pills Mr Waverly had given him gave him an edge of clarity – he could just about focus through the haze but still the questions seemed to be coming from somewhere very far away and his heart was hammering through his chest, fast and irregular in a way that made him feel sick and wrong. Once again he thought he might just prefer the torture over their own drugs.

It was difficult to keep track of who was in the room. He could hear Nick arguing about something in the background, and Rex was certainly there for a while, asking cold questions while Kurt brought the rod down across the soles of his feet. He concentrated on offering anger and hurt – things that THRUSH would feel they could take and manipulate and build upon.

" _Why do you want to join THRUSH?"_

" _Because UNCLE betrayed me. They let me down. He looked me in the eyes and told me he was sending me back to die."_

" _Do you believe in what UNCLE stands for."_

" _Pretty words, is all. I do not care about ideology."_

" _And would you kill Waverly, if we asked you?"_

" _I would kill him if you did not ask me. But I do not think I will get the chance."_

The same questions over and over, interspersed with other questions over places and dates as though they were trying to catch him out. Sick and dizzy and confused, his head aching, it was all he could do to keep track of his answers.

Finally just as his mind started to clear, he took advantage of a slight break to gaze coolly up at Kurt. "You know your drug wore off five minutes ago, yes? At this point you either have to accept that I am telling you the truth or move onto more extreme methods. And do try to make up your mind quickly; I am feeling hungry."

With a roar of anger, Kurt punched down towards his face. Illya tried to turn his head to deflect the worst of it, but the blow still caught him squarely on the jaw. The final straw; he felt everything rushing to black.

When he finally woke up he found he was back in his room. No cuffs, no guards...that had to be a good sign. Absently he put his hand to his chest. His heart still felt like it was beating too fast but the spasms of pain had stopped at least, leaving nothing but a dull, tired ache. His head, though, felt like someone was digging through his skull with an ice pick. He supposed he could tell Mr Waverly that the drug worked as expected. Although no doubt THRUSH would develop a counter-counter-agent almost immediately. They always did.

He sat up slowly, conducting his usual self-assessment. His jaw ached from that last punch and the swelling felt impressive – and no doubt the bruising was as well. Other than that, his shoulders ached, there was a pull of pain just around his ribs, and the soles of his feet felt hot and stingy. Nothing that he could not work through.

The clock on the nightstand said it was a quarter to six. He doubted he'd been out for long, so the chances were he'd spent most of the day with Kurt. What a waste of time.

There was a soft knock at the door, and an instant later Nick entered carrying a tray which he set down on the table. Ah, good, you're awake," he said, sounding relieved. "I was concerned. How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine," he said immediately. It was always the answer, no thought required.

"I'm sorry about that," Nick added sincerely. "Kurt gets carried away."

He honestly wasn't entirely sure whether Nick was apologising for the torture in general or that last punch in particular. It didn't really make a difference. "It's fine," he said again. "I have had worse before and fully expect to have worse again."

"Are you always such a pessimist?" Nick asked exasperatedly.

He shrugged. "I prefer to think of myself as a realist." The smell from the table was making him hungry. "Is that for me?" he asked.

"Yes, sorry, go ahead," Nick said. "I figured you would still be hungry."

"Very much so," he agreed, sitting down and digging in. It was spaghetti bolognaise, rich and flavourful. "This is delicious. Your cooking again?"

"Yes," Nick said, sounding pleased. "I enjoy cooking. It's an excellent way to relax."

"I enjoy eating," Illya told him.

Nick laughed. "The perfect partnership." He sat at the seat opposite Illya and watched him eat for a few moments. "So," he said at last. "I wanted to talk to you about Napoleon Solo."

No. A thousand times no. Not now and not ever. But he couldn't let himself hesitate. "He is a fool," he said, taking a mouthful of pasta.

"You think so?" Nick asked, his voice deceptively casual.

"A highly skilled and successful agent," he conceded. "But a fool as a man. If you were curious why did you not ask me while I was still under Kurt's ministrations?"

"His name did come up," Nick told him, watching his face with interest. "I asked if you would kill him. And you said 'if I had to'."

"So what of it?" he asked with a shrug.

"Every other UNCLE agent I asked about you said some variation of 'yes'. And you told Dancer to tell him you're sorry."

Блин. How had he let that slip by him? That was careless beyond all forgiveness. But the fact that he was here, discussing it with Nick and not back with Kurt suggested they hadn't taken the worst interpretation of his words. If he was seen to be abandoning UNCLE too easily that could be just as suspicious as if he showed regret. It was possible to be too perfect a traitor. He had to turn this mistake into a useful weakness.

"I told you the truth before - I think him a fool," he began slowly. "But he has saved my life many times before, often at great risk to himself."

"As you've saved his," Nick pointed out. "You've gone back for him on several occasions when it would have been safer to simply walk away."

This wasn't about telling Nick anything he didn't already know. This was about showing him that he believed a twisted interpretation of the truth. "Of course," he said with a shrug. "Can you imagine the Soviet agent returning from a mission without Waverly's golden boy? No, they would have thrown me back to Mother Russia long before if I ever tried anything so foolish. But Napoleon...Solo...he could easily have returned without me and no one would have batted an eye. My saving him ensured my own survival, you understand? Him saving me gained him nothing except me."

"Perhaps he thought that was enough," Nick suggested.

"Perhaps," he said shortly. "Or perhaps his pride simply wouldn't allow him to be less than perfect." It felt strange, discussing his partnership with Napoleon in the past tense. "His personal vanity is a weakness. I admit he was often kind to me when it did not benefit him in any way. But as I told Kurt I will still kill him if I have to. No doubt he will try the same."

"Do you think you could turn him?" Nick asked, watching him curiously.

He hesitated fractionally. He wanted to say ' _yes'_ because that would give him a reason not to shoot at Napoleon the next time they met. However the truth was surely too obvious for this to be anything but a trap. Napoleon would never betray UNCLE, not even for his sake. After all, they only believed Illya a traitor because they had made the alternative worse. Napoleon had no such dark possibility hovering over his head. "I have never considered," he said truthfully. "But I doubt it. He is a man of fastidious morality, and he has no great desire that only THRUSH could fulfil for him. But..." He spoke slowly feeling he should be giving Nick _something._ "I think, perhaps, I could persuade him to retire and leave UNCLE altogether. Not now, the anger and the betrayal will still be too great. But in time – perhaps."

"I imagine that would be an outcome Central would be very pleased with," Nick murmured, a satisfied little smile playing about his lips. "Losing you will already be a considerable blow to UNCLE's effectiveness on this continent. Losing Mr Solo as well would certainly be a victory for us."

He nodded, not quite trusting himself to speak.

"Now," Nick went on briskly. "Rex has an assignment lined up for us." He glanced at his watch "The briefing starts in a minute. We don't want to be late."

No. Hopefully this would give him some hint as to the way forward.

His feet were burning as he walked, but he carefully kept his expression blank. No weakness.

Rex was back in his throne, overseeing the long table. Lucie was sitting at the table nearest to him with Kurt beside her. Illya took the chair opposite and casually angled it so he could see the doors while still keeping an eye on Kurt and giving Rex the attention he would no doubt expect. A second later Nick sat beside him.

"Ah, Illya," Rex said benevolently. "It's good to see you up and walking around so soon. You aren't holding any grudges from this morning I trust? Kurt was only doing as I asked."

"I am Russian," he said coolly. "The idea that those I work for might hurt me is neither new nor especially shocking."

Kurt was glaring at him across the table, but he just let his head tilt back impassively.

"Well said, my boy," Rex smiled. "Now, I think it would be a good idea if you and Kurt shook hands. Just to show willing."

Face blank, he stood and walked around the table and Kurt did the same. He held out his and Kurt took it, immediately trying to crush his knuckles. _Really?_

"You might not be working for UNCLE anymore, but that doesn't mean I trust you," Kurt said loudly.

A good undercover agent would say something disarming and conciliatory at this point, he knew. He smiled sharply. "It is not the fact that you tortured me that I have a problem with," he said. "It's that your performance in that area was so lacklustre. There are seventeen major points of pain on the human body, you touched barely two of them. Three, if I were feeling charitable, which I am not. Perhaps later if we have the time I will give you a master class on how to thoroughly interrogate someone."

It wasn't as though he was anxious to sound like a good undercover agent, after all.

Kurt just growled at him, seemingly inhibited by the presence of Rex, who was standing in front of them like he was conducting ceremonies...or possibly preparing to referee.

Rex laughed as they broke apart. "Ah, Illya, my boy, you are a joy," he said, patting Illya's cheek briefly. "I can't think why you didn't come over to our side sooner. Now, if that's all out of the way, let's get down to business."

Apparently Rex didn't feel like he and Kurt snarling at each other's throat was going to be any kind of problem.

He sat back down and watched as Lucie pulled a series of plans and maps off a nearby trolley. There was a familiar looking contraption on there as well. He'd last seen it in the UNCLE lab.

"This is the Armdale Secure Transport office in lower Manhattan," Lucie announced, spreading out the papers. Illya frowned - he was aware of Armdale's work. They received a lot of government contracts to move sensitive and hazardous materials around the country. "Central has requested that we retrieve a shipment that they're going to be moving in the next couple of weeks. The information on the shipment should be inside this office."

"What's the shipment?" Illya asked, studying the plans carefully.

"Why do you need to know that?" Kurt demanded suspiciously.

He gave a barely-suppressed sigh. "It makes a difference as to where it is likely to be located, and what the security is going to be like," he explained, like it was obvious.

"Unfortunately that information is not freely available," Rex said, smiling. "I'm afraid you had best get used to that."

Right. He wondered if everyone else knew. "And so we are breaking into this office to look for a file?" he asked.

"That's right," Lucie agreed. "Z-4TQLE. These dossiers have all the details available."

"Initially, my plan was to have you and Nick break in at night," Rex went on. "There's a very sophisticated security system, as no doubt you can see, but dear Lucie managed to acquire a device from UNCLE that promised to disable it for us. Unfortunately it doesn't seem to work and so I'm afraid it will have to be a frontal attack during the day."

With all the casualties that implied. His eyes flickered to the device on the trolley. It had been Dr Ndebele's project, but Illya had joined in the discussions, and he understood the theory. "I could fix that," he said with certainty.

"Really?" Nick asked, sounding surprised.

He nodded. "Dr Ndebele was talking about it with me last week. He explained the problems."

"Why does it matter?" Kurt demanded, slamming his hand on the table. "Let's keep things simple. I'll lead a team in a frontal assault, we'll have that file before you know it. Unless, of course, our bleeding-heart UNCLE agent is afraid things will get too bloody for him?"

"Killing for killing's sake?" Illya leaned across the table and fixed Kurt with a scornful look. "Is that all you people think about?" He turned to look at Rex. "Do you know what happens when you kill someone on one of these little escapades? First of all, you obviously attract UNCLE's attention immediately, that's a given. But secondly, you also allow Waverly to go to all his backers, point at this...'atrocity'...and ask for more funding. For every person you kill UNCLE gets another thousand dollars to try and combat us. Do you really think that's worth it for the sake of a few dead bodies? Let's be pragmatic here. I specifically wanted to join this little troupe because of your discretion. Please. Do not disappoint me."

Please let this work. Right now he was facing a choice between giving THRUSH their technology and colluding in a mass murder. And he had to choose the lesser of evils.

"He does make a good point," Lucie said, looking at Rex keenly. "We don't want this affair to attract any attention yet."

"Very well," Rex said at last. "Illya, you will repair this jamming device for us. No doubt Central will be delighted to have it working anyway."

No doubt. He hoped this wasn't a mistake. He nodded, showing his unconcern.

Kurt stared daggers at him across the table.

* * *

For the first time in his life, Alexander Waverly was irritated by a plan's success. It had been three days now since Mr Kuryakin had ostensibly betrayed them and joined THRUSH, and the mood around the building was unpleasant to say the least. He'd hard far too many dark whispers of mistrust claiming to have _always_ known Kuryakin wasn't to be trusted, and more than a few unfortunate remarks regarding Mr Kuryakin's nationality. Yes, he wanted Mr Kuryakin to appear a traitor to all, and he'd gone to some considerable effort to make sure that was the case, but the fact that this affair was once again uncovering old prejudices in his supposedly non-partisan organisation was a source of considerable irritation. He might make pragmatic use of those prejudices, but that didn't mean he appreciated them.

Of course, not all were entirely convinced. He'd observed a few flickers of doubt from the Section II agents who knew Kuryakin best. They at least doubted that he would throw in his lot with THRUSH no matter the provocation. Absolutely true, of course, but hardly a point of view he could be seen to be encouraging in the current climate. Instinct told him that none of his agents would fall prey to this scheme, but instinct had been wrong before and he wasn't prepared to take that chance. He had let cold fury rage at the betrayal and had raised no objection to some very colourful remarks Marco Cortese had made in his presence as to Mr Kuryakin's character and breeding.

He shuffled papers across his desk and sighed. It had been easy enough to order Mr Kuryakin be captured rather than killed if at all possible. Without knowing what information the traitor had passed on, it was the logical choice – indeed, it was the order he would likely give were this real. Not to mention with the Soviets still supposedly breathing down his neck demanding the return of their...property, as they had so distastefully put it...keeping Mr Kuryakin alive made sense. Hopefully his order would be enough to protect him from their own people at least, as would the fact that at present they simply did not have the first idea where Mr Kuryakin might be.

Truthfully, he didn't even know whether his agent was still alive, although in the absence of evidence to the contrary, he was going to act as though he were. He had formed this plan because he trusted Mr Kuryakin to carry it through successfully. There was no reason to doubt that.

He'd also ordered Mr Kuryakin's access codes rescinded, his office and apartment thoroughly searched, and his bank accounts frozen. In short, he'd taken every step to brand the young man a traitor, and that too had him feeling some flicker of irritation – or regret.

In the meantime, he was doing his best to weed out the other unfortunate victims of this plot. Having a known traitor within the organisation was a perfect reason to go through the records, looking for evidence of leaked intelligence. He brought in three analysts from Section IV chosen partly on their own merits and partly on their lack of close family, and told them not to confine their search to information Mr Kuryakin could have leaked. After all, where there was one traitor, there could be others.

Hopefully that would give them a starting point.

* * *

Being outside was a relief, Illya thought. There was something stifling about that house, at least in his mind.

It had been four days now, and other than the time he'd been working on the jammer, he'd spent much of it training in the gym and the firing range. Not that he really needed it, but his new employers wanted to check what he was capable of, and he'd been quite keen to see what the others could do as well, for all the obvious reasons. Plus it had been quite gratifying to see the look on Kurt's face the first time he hit the mat. The physical pain from the torture session had all-but-faded, but the memories lingered.

He'd found reasons to go out every day, just for a short while. Legitimate reasons that no one could take exception to; buying more clothes, picking up extra parts for the jammer. checking if his bank account was still accessible – it wasn't, but Nick had arranged an advance on his THRUSH salary, plus a generous signing on bonus that was apparently standard for all agents coming in at his pay grade. The amount of money was...surprising. And a little obscene. What _wasn't_ surprising was that he had not been allowed out unaccompanied. Oh, they'd been subtle about it, but Nick or Lucie always insisted on coming along with him. Which was fine, he'd had no plans of making contact with UNCLE, not least because he simply didn't have much to report. No, this was simply to get them used to the idea of him out in the world so that when he _did_ have to pass a message on, no one would be looking at him so hard.

Checking the house from top to bottom had been his first step, naturally enough, a move that he'd been easily able to play off as a sensible desire to familiarise himself completely with his new surroundings. Unfortunately it had taken him no time at all to realise that not only were there no signs of any children in this house, there was nothing to suggest there ever had been. There were no rooms that suggested anyone might have been being held for any length of time. No, reason told him that the children must be being held elsewhere. Worse, no one mentioned children or hostages in any way. Whatever was going on, clearly wasn't subject for casual conversation, and without a lead in, he was reluctant to raise the subject himself.

"Have you got everything you need?" Nick asked, as they walked away from the electronics shop.

"Yes," he said truthfully. It would be relatively simple to repurpose components to amplify the signal. The theory was already there, after all.

"You know we could send people out to get whatever you need," Nick said knowingly as they walked down the street, Illya turning his face towards the sun.

He flashed Nick a brief, half smile. "I could not be sure they would get precisely what is required."

"And you wouldn't get to enjoy the fresh air," Nick said, holding up his hand immediately to forestall any protest. "No, I get it, you're used to a more active life than this and you're restless. Makes sense; so am I. Once Rex gives us the order to move on this assignment, things will be better."

Hopefully. Because being stuck in this limbo was getting him nowhere.

A woman's scream suddenly rang out from the alley beside them. He exchanged a quick, startled glance with Nick.

"Could be a trap," Nick said reluctantly.

"Help me!" the voice screamed.

He grimaced. "Cover me," he said, and Nick nodded and quickly moved to the side of the street.

Illya sprinted down the alley, looking around for the source of the screaming. There were too many shadows here, too many places to hide. He turned a corner only to find a large grey van, and beside it three figures, two men and a woman who didn't look noticeably threatened in any way. All of them were holding guns. All of them looked pleased to see him.

A trap, then. Of course. He should have known.

Immediately he threw himself to the side, diving for cover, but they were too quick for him, and the nearest of the men grabbed his arm and threw him bodily against the van door. His head hit off it with a dull, audible thump. "Comrade Kuryakin," the man said in Russian, and blearily Illya noticed he had a distinct Georgian accent. "Did you really think you could get away with defying the Soviet Union? You will return with us now."

No. No, that really wasn't part of the plan. He kicked out sharply at the Georgian's knee cap, and when he yelled and loosened his grip, he pushed past and started to run, but still dizzy, fell to the ground.

Three shots rang out, and the soviets scattered and ran, the van roaring off a moment later.

He sat up slowly as Nick came running up, his gun still in his hand. "Illya! Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," he said, running his fingers gingerly over the growing lump on the back of his head. He blinked up at Nick, frowning slightly. "Thank you," he said, wincing slightly at the surprise in his voice.

"You told me to cover you," Nick reminded him. "Were they from UNCLE?"

"KGB," he said briefly, wondering just how it was they'd found him? Perhaps Rex had wanted to see whether the Soviet government believed his defection to be real. Or perhaps he was just being paranoid.

"Ah." Nick reached out a hand to help Illya up. "Come on, tovarisch, let's get out of here before they realise that they technically outnumber us."

For an instant he froze before he managed to force himself to take the friendly hand. "Why did you call me that?" he said, his voice filled with nothing more than normal curiosity.

"That's what you people call each other, right?" Nick said with a shrug. "Comrade. I thought it was fitting."

His mouth was dry. Was Nick making a point here? After that conversation about Napoleon...it wasn't impossible that THRUSH was aware that Napoleon called him that from time to time. Or then again, maybe it was simply that it was a rather obvious nickname for an unimaginative American to give his Russian...colleague. "Your pronunciation is terrible," he said with a smile.

"You're the linguist, not me," Nick told him with a laugh. "English is all I can manage, I'm afraid. So how do you say it?"

"Tovarisch," Illya said slowly. "The stress is on the second syllable."

"Tovarisch," Nick repeated intently.

He smiled. "Much better," he said. "Now come on. Let's get back to the house. I need to get this jammer finished before tomorrow."

* * *

Eventually someone was going to invent a black ski mask that didn't itch, Illya thought grumpily as he carefully pulled his down. Of course, when they did, crime would be a far more attractive proposition and the crime rate would probably skyrocket.

"Ready?" Nick asked expectantly and he nodded.

This was not so very different than anything he had done before. He set off the jammer just outside the door and once the security system shut down, Nick picked the lock and the pair of them slipped inside. So far so good.

There was no one behind the desk – they already knew that the guard's patrol would keep him clear of them for the next half hour or so. That should be plenty of time, provided nothing went wrong.

The office they were looking for was on the fourth floor. Again Nick picked the lock in a matter of seconds and they carefully started looking through filing cabinets for the correct file. Quietly he wanted to find it before Nick. After all, knowing what was in it mattered here. He had to know _what_ it was he was aiding THRUSH to do.

"You know it would be much more convenient if they just filed things in alphabetical order," Nick complained from the other side of the room.

He didn't look up. "I doubt they took the convenience of potential burglars into consideration when designing their filing system."

"I've got a good mind to leave a note," Nick said.

"Try and remember not to sign it," Illya said dryly. Ah. Z-4TQLE. This was that they were looking for. Quickly he took the file out and started taking pictures of it.

"You've found it?" Nick asked, sounding pleased as he came up behind him, resting a companionable arm on Illya's shoulder to look past him. "So what are we going after?"

He saw the details of the secure train and his heart seemed to freeze in his chest. "Plutonium," he said leadenly.

Nick whistled. "Well, that's going to be tricky, isn't it? Have you got what we need? Put the file away and lets get out of here."

He had hoped to be able to leave the file out somewhere obvious so it would be apparent someone had read it, but under Nick's expectant eye, he had little choice but to put it back properly.

This wasn't something that he could allow to happen. He needed to get word to UNCLE, warn them. But he needed to stay undercover because they would need details of the plan, and he still wasn't sure where the children came into it, nor where they were.

He was deep in thought as they headed downstairs and he allowed Nick to go first which meant that when they got to the lobby Nick was the first to spot that the security guard had apparently abandoned his patrol for a chance to sit with his feet up on the desk, reading the paper.

They'd have to find another way out. He leaned forwards ready to tell Nick that he remembered that there was an external door in the canteen on the ground floor, but before he could say a word, Nick clicked his tongue in annoyance and shot the guard in the back.

Illya stood rooted to the spot as the guard slid off the chair with an unpleasant little gurgling noise.

"So much for not killing anyone," Nick said with a sigh. "Sorry, pal, you should have been doing your job like you were supposed to." He laughed and half-turned to look at Illya, and Illya had never been so glad to be wearing a mask.

"Can we move on now?" he asked, and if he couldn't manage amusement at least he could pretend cold indifference.

"Certainly," Nick said, clapping him heartily on the arm, and Illya had never hated anyone more than he hated Nick in that moment.

The guard wasn't quite dead. It would only be a matter of minutes though, there was clearly nothing that could be done. His life was bleeding out from between his fingers. He looked up at them as they walked past, the plea for his life showing clear on his face.

Illya couldn't save him. But he didn't even try.

"Come on, tovarisch," Nick said cheerfully. "Let's go home."

* * *

 **A/N: Thanks for reading, what do you think?**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Sorry that this has has taken so long, I'll try and get back to a more frequent posting schedule.**

* * *

Napoleon whistled a jaunty tune as he walked towards headquarters. Two weeks of vacation on Tahiti – the first spent with the devastating Carolina and the second spent by turn with the equally beautiful Fiona, Mirabelle and Ashley – and he felt relaxed, refreshed, and ready to get back to saving the world.

And more than likely he'd have to jump straight back into it. He'd got back late last night but not so late that he hadn't given Illya a call, just to check in and to see if there was anything he'd missed while he'd been away. There'd been no answer, which probably meant that Illya was out on assignment somewhere and more than likely Napoleon would be sent straight out to join him. He supposed he could count himself lucky that it apparently hadn't been so serious that his vacation time had been cut short.

As he walked through the tailor shop he could swear that Del was giving him an odd look, but when he turned there was nothing. Immediately he got a flash of deja vu to a previous time he'd been coming back from vacation and Mr Waverly and Illya had contrived to make headquarters disappear on him to ensure he was authentically out of the loop.

But the secret door opened as normal and Suzanne was waiting beyond as usual...with a welcoming smile that was patently fake.

Hmmm. "Good morning," he said easily, watching her carefully.

"Oh, good morning, Napoleon," she said, pinning his badge onto his lapel like it was an automatic action. "Did you enjoy your vacation?"

"Yes, thank you, I very much did," he said. "Is everything alright, Suzanne?"

"Of course," she said, but even her fake smile flickered, and was that sympathy in her eyes? "I imagine Mr Waverly will want to see you soon."

"Right," he said doubtfully, and he walked past her into the building. He'd stop by his office first, drop his things off and check for any urgent memos before he went to see if Mr Waverly _was_ looking for him.

He couldn't help but notice that he was attracting a lot of furtive looks and careful whispers. This wasn't the sort of attention he was normally looking for. Evidently there was something that everyone else knew that he didn't. Of course there was; why could he never return into something normal? He gave a wry smile; at least this time they hadn't made the building disappear.

They hadn't. It was so much worse than that. When he reached his office – when he reached _his_ and _Illya's_ office – he found that his side was exactly as he had left it, but Illya's side had been entirely cleared out. The desk was a blank space, cleared of papers, journals, Illya's typewriter – everything. The filing cabinet stood ajar and empty, the labcoat had vanished from its usual hook behind the door and even that damned fish tank was gone. It was as if his partner had simply been wiped from the face of the earth.

He took a deep breath. Someone would have called him if Illya had been killed. _Someone would have called him._

"Napoleon!" April's voice came from behind him.

He whirled around. "Where is he?" he demanded, trying to keep the sharpness from his tone.

"I'm sorry," she said, eyeing him with nervous sympathy. "I'd meant to catch you when you came in but I got caught up in the archives." She cast a look down the corridor, obviously aware of the listeners. "Why don't we discuss this in your office?"

Right. He stepped inside, closed the door and waited expectantly.

She cleared her throat. "I'm sorry," she began bluntly. "Kuryakin is working with the enemy."

This again. He'd have expected better from April. "You're wrong," he said in an even tone. "Illya has proved time and again that his first loyalty is to UNCLE, not the Soviet Union. And he would never betray that."

"No." She held up her hand and there was a look on her face he'd never seen before. "I didn't mean the Russians. I mean THRUSH. He joined THRUSH."

That...would be laughable if April weren't so serious. "Not possible," he said tightly. "Illya would never work with THRUSH, not voluntarily." But clearly something had made her think so...and everyone else, judging by his earlier reception. "They must have got to him somehow – brainwashed him or something. We've all seen them mess with our people's heads before." And if Illya had been compromised like that then Napoleon would need to rescue him as soon as possible, not only for his own sake but also because Illya's knowledge and skills would be a formidable weapon in THRUSH hands.

"Please, Napoleon." Her mouth was twisted with pained sympathy. "I know this isn't easy to hear."

Alright. He had to listen to her version of the truth so he could start to figure out what had really happened. He nodded appeasingly. "So what happened?"

"Well, the first I heard was a rumour that Illya had been called into the old man's office in the middle of the night and offered brandy." His eyebrows shot up; to his knowledge, that _never_ happened. "And then the next day he came in late looking...well, looking hung over to be brutally honest with you, darling. Everyone was worried; we thought he must have got some bad news. Mark went to spar with him, hoping to get him to open up a bit." She paused, biting her lip uncharacteristically.

"What?" he asked, catching her nervousness.

"Illya beat him really badly," she said soberly. "He broke his nose, dislocated his thumb – he even kicked him once Mark was already down. I didn't see the fight, but I saw Mark afterwards."

"And that didn't tell you that Illya wasn't himself?" Napoleon demanded incredulously. Exactly how could anyone think that Illya would ever beat up a fellow agent for no reason? It was looking most likely that some kind of THRUSH mind control or drug was the cause of all this.

"No." She shook her head. "Because when he was called into Mr Waverly's office to explain himself, that was when he said that Mr Waverly couldn't do anything because he was already being sent back to Russia."

Just for a second Napoleon was every bit as shocked as when he'd walked in to see the empty office. He would have sworn that Mr Waverly would never let that happen, not without a considerable fight anyway. But for Illya to be openly discussing it...it would need to be a done deal. One that had happened behind Napoleon's back. Why wouldn't Illya have called him though? He would have come back in a heartbeat. He would have found a way to do something.

"So anyway, for the next few days Illya was angry and rude with everyone and then Mark and I got called to Mr Waverly's office and sent out to investigate a meeting between THRUSH and a suspected Section II traitor."

"Illya," he said dully.

She nodded. "Neither of us were expecting that, in spite of everything. I don't think anyone would have believed Illya would betray us. But he said he would be tortured and killed if he was sent back to the USSR and he wanted to join THRUSH for security. I...you should have heard him, Napoleon. He sounded so lost and angry. He was talking as if we had already betrayed him."

Exactly the sort of idea that THRUSH could implant and use to manipulate. He wondered if this whole transfer could have been a THRUSH plot to begin with? Maybe they had more of a presence within the Soviet government than they'd previously thought.

April was still talking. "He shot Mark with a sleep dart when we confronted him and then threatened to kill him if I didn't let him go. He was so cold. I mean, I know he always is, but this was different."

"And so you let THRUSH take him?" he asked harshly.

She looked exasperated, like she thought he didn't understand what she was telling him. And of course he understood, he just knew better than to accept it. "So what's happened since then? Other than our office being torn apart.?"

"There's been no real sign of him," she said reluctantly. "Mr Waverly has given an order that he's to be captured rather than killed if possible."

"That's good of him," Napoleon said ironically. "Has no one been _looking?"_

"Of course we've been looking," April told him sharply. "We've been through his apartment and your office looking for clues. There's nothing."

"Because Illya isn't a traitor," he insisted.

"Because he's an exceptional agent," April corrected. "You have to understand, a lot of people are very angry with him right now."

"He didn't do this," Napoleon said with absolute and unshakeable certainty. "And I'm going to go straight to Mr Waverly and tell him so."

She stepped in front of him briefly. "Napoleon...one more thing. He told me to tell you that he was sorry."

He looked at her blankly. Sorry. Right.

Paying no attention to the furtive looks he was attracting, he strode through headquarters to Mr Waverly's office, barely stopping to knock on the door.

To his relief, his boss looked up when he came in, immediately giving his his full attention. "Ah, Mr Solo. I've been expecting you. Please. Close the door. I assume you have already been informed of our current crisis."

He did as he was told. "Sir, Illya is no traitor," he said boldly. "He would never join THRUSH of his own volition."

With a gesture, Mr Waverly indicated for him to sit down. "Of course he would, Mr Solo. And he has done precisely that. On my orders."

"Your orders?" he repeated, the wind taken out of his sails.

"Yes." Mr Waverly looked at him sternly. "Mr Kuryakin did suggest that you wouldn't believe him capable of joining THRUSH. It seems he was correct."

"As was I," he pointed out quickly, his mind whirling. "Since he hasn't. Am I to take it then that Illya is undercover? And no one else knows?" His voice was sharp and incredulous.

"No one outside this room," Mr Waverly agreed. "Perhaps I should begin at the beginning."

"Please," Napoleon said, and he listened to the story of kidnapped children and compromised agents with growing concern and horror. He could see why Mr Waverly had thought sending in Illya undercover like this was the best plan, he just hated it. There was far too much that could go wrong. Far too much that Illya could be asked to do that he would never ever do. And without a partner to act as back up, without an exit plan, Illya was completely on his own. For all they knew, Illya could already be dead. "Permission to speak freely sir?" he said when Mr Waverly had finished talking.

"You want to tell me that you don't like this. Well, neither do I," he said surprisingly. "Neither did Mr Kuryakin. It's an ugly, dirty business, but one that seems most likely to get us the results we need. I would not have sent Mr Kuryakin were I not certain he could handle himself in this." He snorted. "I hardly need to tell you how capable your partner is."

No. But that wasn't the point. "I understand, sir," he said unhappily. "What do you need me to do with regards to this affair?"

"As up until now you were on vacation it wasn't possible for you to be involved," Mr Waverly began.

He would have come back from vacation had he been informed. And he knew why he hadn't been; his suspicion of Illya would be, in itself, suspicious. "You wanted my authentic reaction to the news to be seen by those compromised within headquarters," he said, not bothering to mask his disapproval entirely. "And now, I assume, I'm to emerge convinced by the incontrovertible evidence?"

"Exactly, Mr Solo," he agreed. "And to aid further in the deception, you will assist Mr Slate and Miss Dancer in hunting down Mr Kuryakin – and, by coincidence, the rest of this satrap. You might also look into who else is currently giving information to THRUSH."

"Yes, sir," he said grimly. He hated coming in halfway through a mission.

He walked slowly back to April's office, and if previously he hadn't cared who saw his determination, now he was making sure to broadcast tightly controlled anger. If Illya's life depended on everyone thinking Napoleon despised him, so be it. He would play his part.

Mark was in the room as well, along with Marco Cortese. They looked up at him, but for a moment no one said a word. He glanced at the fish tank, taking up a substantial corner of the smaller office. "New addition?" he asked.

"After Section IV had got through checking it for clues, no one was exactly sure what to do with the fish," April explained. "I had them moved through here for the moment. It's not their fault, after all?"

He caught an odd note in her voice and wondered; was April as sure of Illya's guilt as she made out? Mr Waverly had claimed that _no one_ was to be regarded as above suspicion, and he wasn't going to break orders to let her in on the truth, but she was a good agent, an intelligent woman, and she knew Illya well.

"If you want them back...?" she offered.

"No," he said woodenly. "That's fine. I think the less I have to remind me of that...person, the better."

"You're convinced then?" Mark asked with a glance. "April said you weren't before."

"There's not much doubt is there, in the end," he said coldly. "The files Mr Waverly showed me made it perfectly plain. That treacherous little _bastard._ " He slammed his hand against the wall and hoped that the uncharacteristic outburst would seem understandable when he'd been betrayed by the person closest to him.

"Sorry, Napoleon," Marco said, gazing at him sympathetically. "Guess you got burned worse than any of us, but the commie fooled us all, remember. We'll know better than to trust his kind in the future."

"Right," he agreed and it wasn't difficult to twist the spark of annoyance and anger around until it seemed like it was aimed at Illya. "So what have we got?"

"Well, Armdale Secure Transport was broken into three days ago," Mark said, opening a file and laying it across the desk. "They managed to bypass security which is why we're sure Kuryakin is involved. According to Section VIII the evidence suggests they were using a device Dr Ndebele developed...and remembers discussing extensively with Kuryakin."

Napoleon nodded slowly. He supposed Illya _might_ have given THRUSH technology to secure his own position, but this particular device sounded rather too useful for that. It could be worth his while investigating who _else_ had access to these plans. "Do we know what they were after?"

"No," Mark admitted with a grimace. "Nothing was obviously disturbed."

Of course not. Really, Illya, couldn't you have been a little less competent when working for the enemy? "Well, I guess we're going through all their operations for the next month or so," he said with a tight smile. "Was that the last sighting?"

"Technically that wasn't even a sighting," April said carefully. "The only witness – an Armdale security guard – was murdered."

"Shot in the back at point blank range," Marco said in hushed tones. "That Kuryakin is one cold-hearted son of a bitch."

"We don't know that it was him personally," Mark said, sounding irritated.

"Well, you were the one he was trying to murder with a sleep dart," Marco pointed out. "And April's report says he's done it before. If that's not cold, what is?"

Fortunately it was a rhetorical question.

"This is the last known sighting, darling," April said, sliding a photograph across the table. "It was intercepted from the KGB. Apparently they tried and failed to stage a kidnapping. It's from five days ago."

He didn't like the reminder that Illya was out there on his own against the KGB as well as everyone else. But this _was_ the proof of life he'd been looking for. If nothing else he knew Illya had been alive five days ago.

He studied the photograph carefully. A New York street so he could assume they were still relatively near by. And Illya looked relatively unharmed, although there was a dark shadow visible on his jaw – a bruise, probably. But what really brought him up short was the sight of Illya walking beside this THRUSH agent ("That's the one Kuryakin was meeting in the bar," April told him) body angled slightly towards him, that crooked half smile on his lips. Try as he might, he couldn't get away from the fact that this was Illya's body language, Illya's expressions. From this photo, there was no mask in sight. There was an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach.

He really hated this.

* * *

It was late when he got back home. UNCLE never did believe in easing agents back into the swing of things after time away.

Mr Waverly had got three analysts working on the information they knew had been leaked, looking for culprits. Napoleon had spent much of the evening going through it looking for patterns. Removing everything that _could_ have have leaked by Nicola Golding, there was definitely information coming from the lab. Unfortunately narrowing down further than that was proving difficult. He had eight possibilities, but he'd need to look into their personal lives to figure it out. There had also been some disruptions to operations which pointed towards a member of Section II, although he wasn't ruling out that someone in communications could have been involved. Again though, he didn't have enough to give him a single suspect.

Finding traitors in UNCLE wasn't new. But every time he felt that same disappointment. And even though the circumstances were different here, he felt it just the same, as though _their_ people should be better. He wondered what he'd do in the same situation, but that, he supposed, was part of why Mr Waverly hadn't suspected he might be compromised. Immediate family was in short supply. Certainly there were no children or even nieces or nephews to be held over his head. Same for Illya, and he wondered whether that was altogether coincidence.

One thing that had been unfortunately obvious today – there were a lot of people interested in seeing just who might be next in line for Illya's position. A distasteful thought but one he couldn't completely escape if he wanted to keep up this pretence. The trouble was, he was reluctant to offer anyone hope of a promotion that they were absolutely, categorically, not going to get. In a few weeks at the outside, Illya would be walking straight back into his job as though he had never left. Napoleon wouldn't have it any other way. But he'd need to pretend to consider it at least. Perhaps if he let it be known he was in no way looking for another partner, but scheduled some meetings with Mr Waverly to discuss the number two position...

There was a sudden knock at the door. He raised an eyebrow. Odd; he hadn't been expecting anyone. Taking the precaution of drawing his gun and keeping it hidden behind his back, he opened the door and was confronted with the delivery guy from the Jade Palace carrying cartons of Chinese take out.

"For you," he announced.

Napoleon blinked at him, momentarily nonplussed. "I didn't order anything."

The guy shrugged. "Your friend ordered. He said it was important."

His friend...and this was the place that he and Illya normally went to. Ah. How do you go about making contact when you can't make contact? "Of course, I must have forgotten," he said, quickly digging through his pockets for some change for a tip. "Here."

He closed the door and hurried inside and laid the food out across the table. Beef in black bean sauce and egg foo yung. Well, that was Illya's normal order – he supposed it was too much to ask that he'd get what Napoleon wanted. There could be a hidden message in there, but more likely it was just perfectly normal aggravation and a way of signing the note he found at the bottom of the bag.

For a long moment he just stared at it. Oh, he recognised Illya's handwriting immediately, but the note itself was written in Chinese.

He sighed. "Really?" he demanded out loud. "You couldn't have decided to order Italian instead?"

* * *

Naturally his ingenuity was up to the task and even though he was obviously reluctant to use UNCLE translators, he had the note translated within a couple of hours via Meilin Jones, a very nice girl he'd dated before her marriage. Fortunately her husband wasn't the jealous type.

It was brief and to the point, as he'd expect. Evidently Illya didn't have a lot of time away from his new found friends. And it was written in an old CIA code that Illya could have assumed he'd know and, apparently, knew himself. That could be for security or it could just be showing off. But again, it was easy for him to translate.

" _Armdale Train 1600 16th. Plutonium. Access Codes in Washington Office. Driver."_

And that was it. Of course, that was enough.

This was going to get worse.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: This took longer than I expected, but on the plus side, quite a lot happens in this chapter. I think so anyway.**

* * *

He hadn't had a full night's sleep in four days now. A foolish concern for a man who was supposed to be cold and ruthless, but then he was struggling with that just a little more than he let anyone see. When he closed his eyes he dreamed of that moment when Nick had shot the guard, remembered the desperate look in the dying man's eyes as he'd turned around and walked away. And sometimes in his dream, Nick handed the gun to him and smiled expectantly, and sometimes Illya pulled the trigger.

The trick, of course, was letting not so much as a hint of that show, especially to Nick. He was ashamed to admit that he had felt his attitude shift – ashamed because the revelation that the THRUSH man was a cold-blooded killer should never have come as a shock. But he had been careless. Nick had seemed harmless enough. More than that, he had seemed friendly and Illya had started to think of him...not as a friend, that would be a gross overstatement, but perhaps less of an enemy. Someone almost neutral. Foolishness, he should have known _better._

His stupidity notwithstanding, he was an accomplished actor and an excellent liar and he was more than capable of sitting with Nick and behaving exactly as he had before, whether it was joining in with the plans to hit the train, or commiserating with him over the fact that Lucie seemingly did not know he existed.

She had certainly noticed _Illya_ existed. And that was a complication in itself, but he was able to read the signals – the mix of attraction and distrust, and he remembered the look she had given him back at the hotdog stand, and he knew he might be able to use this to his advantage...no matter how little he wanted to. This was definitely more Napoleon's style than his.

He found her in the kitchen – or she cornered him there, it was hard to say - and he took careful note of the way her eyes swept over him.

"So you've been with us a week now," she said, her voice low and husky. "Settling in alright?"

He continued making his sandwich without looking round. "Yes, thank you." She fancied herself a femme fatale, that much was obvious, but truthfully she wasn't the type. Too self-conscious, too deliberate. But she had Nick hanging on her every word and she flirted with Rex out of duty, he thought, and she wanted to captivate him and his indifference was driving her mad. There was something to be said for playing hard-to-get, at least when information was what he was after.

"Are you sure?" she pressed. "I know it must be a shock living communally like this, but I assure you, it has a lot to recommend it."

He turned, leaning back against the counter. "Oh, really?" he said. "Like what?"

"It's nice to see so much of each other," she said, stepping forwards and idly brushing fluff off his turtleneck. "You've really brought a breath of fresh air into our dull lives, you know that?"

"I should hardly call your lives dull," he said dryly.

She rolled her eyes. "Learn to take a compliment, Kuryakin."

"I can," he said with what he judged to be an infuriating calmness. "When I believe it to be sincere and not simply part of the game."

For a long moment she just gazed at him. "You're a strange one," she said at last.

"Thank you," he said with a grave smile.

She gave a quick burst of laughter and looked surprised at herself. "That _wasn't_ meant to be a compliment."

He shrugged. "I have no wish to be ordinary."

"I never know what you're thinking," she complained, turning aside restlessly.

"And you are used to knowing what men are thinking?" he asked, slipping just a dash of scorn and amusement into his voice. "Is that what you do around here?" She was intrigued still, but she needed to be provoked.

To his satisfaction, anger flickered briefly across her face. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Only that it seems you are Rex's messenger and not much else," he answered coolly, trusting in her wish to impress him, to prove him wrong.

"Well!" She drew a sharp breath. "Let me tell you, Illya, while you're still talking and planning, _my_ side of the operation is already progressing nicely."

"Your side?" he repeated innocently.

"Yes. How do you think we're going to take the train? We need the driver on our side. And soon he's going to be putty in my hands."

He blinked guilelessly. "You intend on seducing him then?"

She laughed, evidently enjoying her 'triumph'. "Oh, no. Nothing so unpredictable. He has a daughter. A sweet little thing called Alicia. And he'd do _anything_ for her, if you know what I mean."

If he hadn't already known this part he wasn't sure he'd have been able to hide his reaction. The pride and vindictive delight on her face was enough to turn his stomach. "Clever," he said instead with cloying flattery. "Very clever indeed. Your own idea?"

"No," she said, tossing her hair back. "Originally it was Rex's, but I'm the one who makes it _work._ It's easy. Deep down, most people like being told what to do. Especially men. Don't you think so, Illya?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps there is something to what you say."

"Look at you, for example," she said, tracing a single, painted fingernail in little circles across his chest. "Always jumping at the commands of your government, then UNCLE, and now Rex. A man with no ambition beyond his own survival - "

" - a lofty ambition for one in my profession," he pointed out.

"Have you ever thought perhaps you crave orders?" she went on, ignoring him.

At this point he wasn't even entirely certain if this was a power play or an extremely ill-judged attempt at seduction. Thankfully either way he didn't think succumbing offered him any advantages. He turned his face away as she went to kiss him.

"Sorry, I do try not to get romantically involved with my co-workers. I find it leads to complications."

"No complications, sweet thing," she promised, running her hands down his sides eagerly. "Just some good old fashioned fun."

"Nevertheless." He twisted away from her easily and picked up his sandwich. "I believe it is altogether safer to simply retire with my book. Goodnight, Lucie."

She watched him go, her hands on her hips. "You are a very aggravating man, Kuryakin," she called after him.

"Another compliment I can believe," he said, throwing her a crooked smile.

And at least now he knew that the train driver was the target. That certainly was information worth passing on.

And he knew too that they planned on getting the access codes from UNCLE headquarters in Washington. He knew because he had told them so.

They would have found out that UNCLE was partially responsible for the security arrangements, and they would have worked out that the access codes were kept in the Washington headquarters, and at that point they would have had every reason to be suspicious as to why he hadn't already told them. This way he could keep his cover and he could pass the information along so that the damage could be minimised – mitigated, even.

But the fact remained that it was his hands drawing out the map to the building, him laying out the security set up, his ideas, his plans. He was the one Rex smiled at with indulgent pride and called a treasure beyond price, he was the one that Kurt glared at, not now because he thought Illya was a traitor, but rather because he thought Illya was stealing the glory and praise that was his by rights.

He had given THRUSH their technology. He was helping THRUSH break into one of their bases. He had attacked a fellow agent, and he had stood by and watched THRUSH execute an innocent without lifting a finger to stop it. If he was not now a traitor, it was only by the merest technicality.

All he could hope was that the information he'd passed on to Napoleon was being acted upon. Not knowing made him tense. If THRUSH succeeded here, if they came into possession of that plutonium...no. Trust Napoleon. He exhaled deeply. He _had_ passed the information along, he could rely on Napoleon doing whatever was necessary. That was how they worked, and that had not changed.

He hoped his partner appreciated the irony of THRUSH buying him dinner.

* * *

Napoleon had never been any good at waiting around for news; he much preferred to be out there, making things happen. The fact that this affair forced him somewhere more reactive grated on his nerves.

He'd passed on Illya's message to Mr Waverly at once, of course. Fortunately the supposed discussions about who was to replace Illya gave him plenty excuses to need to talk to him without arousing any kind of suspicion. He could tell Mr Waverly was still fractionally irritated with him – or disappointed, maybe? - for the way he'd insisted Illya wouldn't betray them to THRUSH. Never mind that he'd been right, _no one_ was supposed to be above suspicion. If the evidence led them somewhere unthinkable they were supposed to keep an open mind yes, but they were supposed to follow it. Only Napoleon would weigh any evidence you like against the fact that he _knew_ Illya, and that knowledge would win out every time. Illya wouldn't work with THRUSH. It was fortunate that THRUSH did not know him so well.

The problem was making use of the information Illya had given him without leaving any sort of suspicion that Illya might be the one who had given it. So as much as he longed to concentrate all his attention on the plutonium, it was one of three operations he picked out of the current Armdale schedule that he suggested as likely targets, and he assigned other agents including Mark and April to check out the others.

Illya had said they were going after the access codes in headquarters, and that was logical enough that he didn't have to pretend to make some deductive leap They had an UNCLE agent onside, of course they were going to use him. He wondered if Illya was assuming – or hoping – they were going to stop him.

They weren't.

They didn't have enough information yet to risk bringing the affair to an end. Oh, Mr Waverly was already taking all the quiet steps to ensure the plutonium on the train was suitably harmless, and the actual plutonium was transported later, but still they were going to stand and suffer Washington HQ to be broken into.

It didn't sit well with him, even less that Illya was going to be part of it. So many things that could go wrong. He dreaded to think that someone might be killed in all this, and if that thought weighed on _him,_ just imagine how much worse it would be for Illya.

The codes were generated on Monday. If Illya _was_ involved in the planning of this operation it would take place soon after that. His partner generally disliked leaving things till the last minute. He smiled humourlessly to himself; except rescues of course. They could be just as dramatic as you liked.

And in the meantime that left him following up the lead on the driver, a man named Robert Traynor. He realised immediately that the man was under THRUSH surveillance, thankfully long before he'd tried to make an approach. He couldn't risk it. Instead, treading softly as he could, he made concerned enquiries around the neighbourhood and learned in short order that Traynor's young daughter Alicia had recently been diagnosed with some medical condition and her parents had sent her off to some specialist facility. The description of the paediatrician who'd come by the house bore an uncanny resemblance to Lucie Swift.

He'd actually been hoping he might be in time to prevent the kidnapping. Damn. He considered putting the house under surveillance but it would be tricky undetected.

The bug he'd planted on Nicola Golding revealed very little except that she cried when no one else was around. _Her_ daughter was home and that at least was something. But he'd heard the child complaining of being in pain just before the purse the bug was in was put away, and the soft voice had been weary and unsurprised, like the pain was to be expected.

At most he'd learned that contact was made through phone calls and a messaging service. Little used to anyone trying to track them.

Children were missing. Children were being hurt. And he had to pretend not to know, had to pretend that the highest stakes he was aware of was his own supposed rage at Illya.

No one was expecting him to act completely normally, but he had to make a pretence at making a pretence at least. He'd taken Charlotte out for dinner on the Saturday and smiled distantly through her sympathy, just as he smiled distantly through all the whispers at the betrayal.

All the time his mind was somewhere far away.

* * *

For undercover work to be successful it was necessary to lie to everyone, not least of all one's self. Illya told himself that he was not at all apprehensive as he waited with Nick just outside the secondary entrance to Washington HQ, the one that was simply disguised as a boarded up door. Everything would be fine. He ignored the weight of the gun at his side. Not loaded with sleep darts anymore.

"Ready?" Nick asked expectantly, looking fixedly at his watch.

A second later the power went off in all the surrounding blocks. Illya had taken a leaf out of Mr Hemingway's book, all that time ago. No matter what, their security precautions remained largely based on technology.

Three minutes until the back-up generators kicked in fully and security came back online. He got to work quickly, placing explosives on the door and a second later it blew in.

He ran with Nick down the empty metal corridor until they came to a junction. "There," he said pointing. "The stairs at the end. You - "

" - I know," Nick interrupted, patting his arm with an amused smile. "What, are you not used to a partner that doesn't get lost? Good luck. I'll see you soon."

"Good luck," Illya echoed. Nick was heading to the basement to cut the links between the generators and the security system. An entirely necessary role and one Illya sincerely hoped would keep him well away from any UNCLE personnel.

That was for him to deal with. He raced up the corridor in time to see a couple of Section III agents coming out of the security centre, guns already drawn. He had time this operation carefully; Washington headquarters was almost exclusively concerned with matters on US soil and day to day interactions with the US government. It had hardly any Section II agents, fortunately for him, but it did have a large complement of Section IIIs to act as security. At this time in the morning, however, there would be a shift change, and they would be having a handover so the majority of them would be in one place.

The lead agent caught sight of him. "Kurykain," he snarled, and Illya realised he _knew_ him. Bradley Collins. He'd been captured making a courier run last year and Illya had been assigned to retrieve the information, and along the way he'd rescued Bradley and they'd worked together for a few days while he completed his mission. The other agent had been competent and good company and Illya was the one who had recommended him for the promotion that got him posted to Washington. And now there was hate and disgust in his eyes.

He didn't bother trying to say anything. What was there to say? Instead he threw one of the flashbang buttons from his jacket, and when they instinctively stumbled back through the doorway, he sprinted forwards and slammed it shut, locking it before disabling the lock and fusing the door to the door frame with a clever little incendiary device Rex had given him. It only took a moment and while they were still hammering on that door, it gave him time to sprint round the corner to the other door and repeated the process. And there. Hopefully that was the threat contained. Anything to stop this escalating into a shooting match.

Of course, the truth was the worst threat was never going to come from UNCLE.

He headed back down the corridor and met Kurt at the entrance, giving a crisp nod to the man's glare. Really, he would have rather left him out altogether, but they _had_ needed someone to cut off the power, and suggesting he should just wait in the garage with the get away car had not been appreciated.

"Come on," he said neutrally. "The sooner we get this over with the better."

"What's the matter?" Kurt sneered. "Is this bringing back too many memories?"

He ignored that and they headed up to Records. "It is spread over two floors and the access codes could be anywhere," Illya told Kurt, not for the first time. "You take the upper level and I will stay here and search." He paused. "You _can_ read, I suppose?"

Another glare. "Do you ever get tired of running your mouth off?"

"No," he said truthfully and watched, satisfied, as Kurt stomped off. In reality he had a very good idea where the codes were but sending Kurt as far out of the way as possible had been too tempting to resist, in the hope that he would be less likely to encounter anyone.

He found the codes filed in the restricted access section easily enough, but he hesitated for a long moment, gazing at them. He _had_ told Napoleon they – THRUSH – were going after them. So he should just assume that the codes had been altered in some way, or the plutonium was being safeguarded somehow. He trusted Napoleon, he did, but just blithely handing information over to THRUSH...it left a bitter taste in his mouth.

One more betrayal after all.

There was a noise behind him and quickly he tucked the codes away in his jacket and moved soundlessly back towards the stairs. He was out of time to ponder.

He had hoped to get out of here without being spotted, but luck was not with him and he saw the man – a Section III he did not know – on the landing.

He reacted first, his gun trained on the other agent when he'd barely managed to clear his holster. "Drop it and hands up," he ordered, and tutted slightly, as he complied. "Really, walking around during a security breach with your gun still in its holster? Were I still with UNCLE I would be forced to report you for this." He was not altogether joking, this whole break in had been a little too easy for his tastes. Security was far more lax here than it was in New York.

"Kuryakin," the other acknowledged, glaring at him. "Your face is plastered all over bulletins in every station. Do you really think you can just walk in here and not get caught?"

"I have," he pointed out dispassionately. "And you are the one who is caught." His mind was racing, trying to figure out what to do. A hostage was the last thing he needed, but he didn't have anything on him to tie him up with.

"We all knew you'd betray us, you know," the agent said in a low, hateful voice. "It was just a matter of time. Never trust a red. If you'd been sent _here_ we'd have made sure you knew your place." His words held the dark edge of promised violence.

Illya sighed. "You would have _tried._ Turn around and get down on your knees."

He watched the tension in the jaw, the set of the shoulders and stood ready in case he tried anything, but in the end, glancing at the gun in Illya's hand, he shuffled round and did as he was told.

"Just like a commie. Too chicken to look your victims in the eye. At least I'm dying for something I believe in."

He reversed his grip on the gun and swung it in one easy movement, hitting the agent smartly across the back of the head and driving him into unconsciousness. No doubt he would wake up with a horrible headache and Illya was a little concerned at how little that bothered him.

The things he had said were not true. Empty words coming from one who did not even know him. And yet...

"So there it is." Kurt's voice rang out behind him and he cursed himself for not having noticed the man approaching. He turned swiftly to see Kurt standing on the landing, a gun in his hand and a contemptuous smile on his lips. "I've got to hand it to you, you almost had me fooled. All those pretty words and you're still just an UNCLE spy."

Kurt had seen him spare the other agent. And he could see the conviction in Kurt's eyes and he knew immediately that he was _never_ going to be able to convince him. No matter what Illya said, this was it, Kurt would be telling everyone he was a double agent.

"I have the codes," he said, taking them out of his jacket by way of being a distraction.

"Good." Kurt scowled at him for a second. "They're still useful. Put your gun down on the floor and walk over to me. I'm taking you back to Rex and this time we're going to do things my way. I'll show you what torture really means, and then when I'm through, I'll send you back to Waverly a piece at a time."

He laid his gun down and walked unhurriedly up the stairs towards Kurt, the codes held aloft in his right hand to give Kurt something to focus on, which meant he missed it when Illya suddenly lashed out with his left hand, throwing the gun aside. A struggle ensued, fast and brutal and silent, as each fought for the upper hand until Illya kneed Kurt in the stomach sending him backwards, and then Kurt, with his greater strength and bulk charged towards him. The balustrade was behind him. He dropped low and shoved up at the last moment, and Kurt went over the edge and crashed down five floors to the concrete floor at the bottom.

He was already certain but he checked anyway. Kurt was dead.

For a long moment he stood there, gripping the railing tightly, still breathing hard from the fight. This had not been part of the plan. And while he didn't exactly regret Kurt's death, everything was getting twisted up in complications.

Alright. He would plead ignorance. Say he hadn't seen Kurt since they split up, that he'd thought it best to just carry on. He still had the codes, perhaps that would be enough.

With one last look at the man he had killed, he turned back up the stairs to retrieve his gun and get out.

* * *

By some strange quirk of fate, Napoleon found that he and Marco Cortese had arrived at Washington HQ seconds before the power went off. The building went into lock down immediately.

"The back-up generators will kick in in a few minutes," Connie, the pretty red head on reception told him.

He nodded. A few minutes could be too long in an attack. Was this Illya? He couldn't be sure, and he certainly couldn't assume that Illya was trusted to handle everything by himself. "We'd better go and check this out," he told Marco.

"Right." Marco smiled in anticipation, his lips pulled back across his teeth, just a little too eager.

They met up with a Section III named Cowley near the entrance and they worked to get as many of the support personnel hidden away in the conference room as possible. They should be safe there. Apparently most of the rest of Section III had been at the morning briefing – held at the same time each day, stupidly – and the time when they should have appeared came and went right along with the time the back-up generators should bring the automated security system back online. Both had apparently been taken care of.

Seriously, Illya? Just a little less competent?

With the civilians safe, they left Cowley guarding them and moved deeper into the building. Nothing about this felt right. His gun was in his hand and his mouth was strangely dry.

"Do you think it's Kuryakin?" Marco asked intently, taking him by surprise.

"Probably," he said shortly. "It's too much of a coincidence otherwise." Illya was here. Now. With THRUSH. And they had to be allowed to leave, and that meant he had to keep Marco away.

There was a noise from further down the corridor and he signalled Marco to wait behind while he went forwards to investigate. Huh. The door to the security centre had been fused shut and someone was hammering on the other side of it – presumably the rest of Section III. This seemed like a good opportunity to leave Marco away. "See if you can get that door open," he instructed. "We might need to evacuate the building."

For a moment, Marco stared at him. "Are you sure?" he asked cautiously. "If it _is_ the traitor...maybe I should be the one to go."

It took Napoleon a moment to understand why. He took a deep breath. "Are you questioning my professionalism?" he asked, with just a touch of the cold reminder of his authority in his voice.

"Of course not," Marco said hurriedly, shifting uncomfortably. "Just...remember Mark, and make sure to shoot first."

Hardly advice he was likely to take. He left Marco behind and moved on. Really, maybe what he should do here is try and find a quiet corner to stay out of sight. He was supposed to be letting Illya go. Except his own curiosity wouldn't allow him to do that, and still he couldn't be completely sure that it was safe to do so. ( _And he wanted to see Illya.)_ He pressed on.

The metal corridors so favoured by UNCLE architects had the disadvantage of making it difficult to hear where sound was coming from. He heard the voices – recognised Illya's voice - echoing from further ahead, but he had no idea precisely where they were.

"... _where is he...was with you?"_

" _...I did not...we wait..."_

He couldn't tell how far ahead they were either, which was why he turned the corner towards the garage entrance and walked straight into Illya and his new friend.

For a second, nobody moved. A breathless tableau, and Napoleon stared at the gun held in his partner's hand, the gun pointing directly at his chest, and he was thankful for the reflex that aimed his own gun, the unthinking instinct that made his lip curl into the necessary hateful snarl.

"Illya," he spat, wondering only a fraction of a second later whether he should have used Illya's surname.

"Napoleon," Illya replied steadily, gun never wavering.

The THRUSH man was right there. And the little snatch of conversation he had heard, suggested that all was not well. For Illya's sake, he had to make this real. Not least because Illya was a shade paler than the last time Napoleon had seen him, and there was an unsettled look in his eyes, and dark shadows beneath them.

"So how is life as a traitor treating you?"

Even if he wanted to, he couldn't take the shot. Not without Illya shooting him. But why hadn't the other THRUSH man shot yet? He was the one from the photograph, the one Illya had met in the bar, and no one was pointing a gun at him.

Illya sighed as though disappointed. "Must you think in such black and white terms? Yes, I have joined THRUSH. I am sure by now you have heard my reasons. I wished to keep on living. Is that so shocking to you?"

"I trusted you," he said evenly, hoping that Illya could hear that it was the past tense that was the lie. "I thought we were friends."

For a moment, as Illya looked at him, he catches sight of something in his eyes, something that passes too quickly for him to interpret. "That was your mistake."

A sudden bang from back down the corridor interrupted them – Marco getting the security centre door open, Napoleon suspected – and he was thankful because it meant he could take advantage of the distraction to jump back behind the corner and into cover, and he saw Illya dive behind a filing cabinet while the Thrushie darted down the corridor towards the garage door.

"I'll hold him back," Illya called, and he couldn't get past how strange it was hearing Illya make plans with the other side. "You get the door."

Which would also be locked down. At least with Illya being the one shooting at him he could count on not dying here, he thought, as a bullet flew past and buried itself in the wall on the other side of the corridor.

"Was it all a lie?" he demanded loudly as he returned fire, carefully making sure the darts hit the side of the filing cabinet with a satisfying – but harmless – crack. "How can you turn your back on everything you – _we –_ believe in?"

"Ideology? Really?" Illya gave a scornful laugh. "The job means we lie, deceive, steal, destroy and kill people, Napoleon. All on orders. I have never cared about the reasons behind those, and you are a fool if you think otherwise. I have skills that I can exchange for my life and for a comfortable lifestyle. That is all that matters."

There was something uncomfortable about Illya's words. This wasn't what Napoleon had always laughingly referred to as Illya's Rasputin act, dark, dramatic and overblown. It wasn't even the mask of cold and dangerous formality that Illya wore all too often when they were working in Eastern block countries. No, this was something else – ruthless, dispassionate, yes, but there was too much of Illya here, too much that Napoleon recognised. It was like seeing his friend through a dark mirror, recognisable but alien.

"Besides," Illya added, bright cruelty in his voice. "I would remind you of your dalliances with Angelique, Serena, and countless others. All THRUSH and their allegiances do not bother you. Why so much disgust at mine? Don't tell me I mean more to you. Or could it be that you see me as a thinking human being, while they are merely pretty distractions? Empty vessels, perhaps?"

Napoleon took a deep breath. That would sting coming from anyone. From Illya, it _hurt._ And it was very THRUSH. Looking for the weak spots, toying with their prey. And he had to answer back. "I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised," he sneered. "You've always been good at leaving people behind, haven't you? Abandoning them without a second thought, like so much garbage." He could go on. The words were there, cruel enough that there would be no doubt left that Napoleon Solo hated Illya Kuryakin absolutely. ' _Your mother. Your sister. You left them to die.'_ But he didn't think he could keep the venom in his voice.

( _He thought Illya might have heard him say it anyway._ )

Another three bullets came his way, hitting further away this time, and he winced and wondered if Illya didn't trust himself to aim too close.

And now he knew Illya would have to reload, which meant for a second he could relax, even as he heard Illya calling out to him. "This was not my choice in the end. Waverly forced my hand. He looked me in the eye and - "

A shot rang out. He was cut off. And when Napoleon looked round the corner, he saw Illya lying on the ground, a pool of blood already spreading out from under him.

"Illya!"

His mouth was clamped shut. That wasn't his voice, full of shock and worry.

He watched as the THRUSH agent rushed forwards to where Illya was lying, and he _had_ the shot and he longed to take it as he saw the man put his hands on Illya, checking him over. If Illya was badly hurt...if Illya was dead...then this affair was already over, but the wound seemed to be in Illya's shoulder, and he would recover. Should recover, even if Napoleon stood back and let THRUSH take him.

"Come on, tovarisch," the THRUSH agent said fondly, and Napoleon felt his heart twist. "Let's get out of here," and he was pulling Illya up, an arm beneath his shoulders another wrapped around his waist, dragging him towards the garage. Napoleon made to follow, but he had to dodge back as the agent fired wildly back towards him.

And then they were gone. Illya was gone.

Napoleon looked back from the trail of sticky red blood, round into Marco Cortese's jubilant smile and forced himself to return it. "Good shot," he heard himself say from some distant nightmare. "A pity they got away. Next time go for the kneecaps."

* * *

 **A/N: So, what do you think?**


End file.
